


dim as an ember

by JemDoe



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Historical RPF, Original Work, Russian Royalty RPF
Genre: F/F, a self indulgent writing to top all other self indulgent writings, also fuck yall anastasia was a LESBIAN fight me on this, i've made puree out of the musical and movie and this is the end result
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JemDoe/pseuds/JemDoe
Summary: “Is this because…” Yelena started, knowing she would end up regretting the words that would come out of her mouth. “Is it because of the girl in Berlin?”“The impostor, you mean?” Anastasia corrected, so sure of it, and yet. She paused, thinking for a moment, and nodded. “Yes. If only I could talk with… I don’t know, maybe Anastasia has an aunt or an uncle or something… But if I could talk with them…”This was her cue, wasn’t it? This was were Yelena should play puppet master, slowly inch Anastasia close to the realization she could go to Berlin, speak with Olga and Xenia Alexandrovna, and notice that the real Anastasia was herself.





	1. Prologue: Once upon a July

**Author's Note:**

> hello welcome to [checks notes] hell  
> i did. way too much research on this mismash of the movie and the musical. chapters will be titled for musical songs so yall know where we stand. probs. if yall got any questions do feel free to review askin 'em i'd love to scream abt the things i Know

Yelena was paid _handsomely_ well for a servant of the House of Correction, which was why she didn’t mind taking the job in the first place.

Sure, she just cleaned and cooked for the soldiers, but she had a second job while she was going about her business near the (now deposed) Royal Family. As the Commander had said, she was to listen in, and make sure they weren’t planning anything stupid, such as running away. His words, not hers. Yelena was more interested in watching than listening, truth be told, and after her mere month of work, she had a few anecdotes ready.

The Czar (a slip of tongue, really) was an intelligent fellow, eyes quiet and watching, and Yelena couldn’t help but think he _had_ to be this way. She always kept herself wary around him, because he seemed to watch her every move, as if aware of her second job. He probably was, but as long as he didn’t give her any reason to report him, it wasn’t any of her trouble.

The Czarina, meanwhile, seemed sick and frail, a quiet presence muttering prayers to a God above. Yelena didn’t exactly understand - she prayed in foreign tongues, even against the Commander’s order they speak in Russian all times. It seemed, however, vaguely similar to the prayers she remembered listening in church, long ago. Not like she had gone much to it; her parents preferred to tend the farm than to spend a few hours cramped in church.

The Royal children, meanwhile, were an assorted bag of oddness: Olga and her quiet, pale sadness, slinking in corners almost ready to cry; Tatiana and her obsessive, almost methodical way of writing poems, writing and rewriting until perfection; Maria and her muted vividness, after some incident or another with a soldier. It surprised Yelena she was still so _vivid_ , after spending so long in the House; sickly Alexei, who longed to be running off, free as a bird, cursing his frail body, and instead, bed bound and moaning in pain.

And then the youngest of the four sisters, _Anastasia_ , all impotent rage and fury, sitting and watching Yelena as she moved around. If Yelena could read minds, she was almost sure she’d be able to hear the girl cussing at her, swearing her off like a sailor would. She didn’t need to, however; her eyes, blue-gray and angry, said enough.

The Commander, too, was a curious man to watch, but it wasn’t her place to do so. Instead, she kept her observations about the family to herself - because he didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t about planned escapes.

She shook her head; it was late - almost three in the morning, and she should be asleep, ready for work, when the sun rose in about an hour. Unfortunately, she seemed to have a spell of insomnia, feeling something twist inside her chest. _Worry_ , but she couldn’t place a finger on a possible why, like some sort of anxiety that gnawed at her chest for no other reason than to simply gnaw her heart.

Yelena shuddered, huddling herself near the dying fire of the oven, the embers glowing dimly orange, and looked up when she heard the sound of heavy steel boots against the tiled floor. She rose, closing her thin woolen blanket near her body, and faced the soldiers. They seemed nervous, and the worry in her heart made her chest burn with pain.

“Is something needed?” She asked, and one soldier approached. Maybe food? Sure, she could probably whip something out, but it’d take at least twenty minutes.

“Vodka.” One of them said, voice hoarse, and she - but a simple servant who couldn’t deny anything the soldiers asked - nodded, picking up the bottle and glasses for them, hearing them sit. She could hear the sound of them fiddling with their guns, and cold dread settled in her shoulders.

Yelena slid them their glasses, and with no exception, they all drank it at once. She blinked, surprised, and poured more. Were they going to war? Was she going to die?

“Don’t mind my question, but are the Whites nearby?” She sat with them, blinking her dark eyes, and one of them grimaced.

“Commander Yurovsky has received orders from Moscow.” He said, and it was enough, eyeing his gun. His partner drank both their drinks.

She very much doubted the order came from far, dream-like Moscow, and not directly from the Commander, but who she was to question anything? Yelena was just a lowly servant, at the end of the day. What did she know about what the Party thought?

Yelena nodded, quietly, legs failing her as she sat down, and one other spoke up.

“We shouldn’t even be telling you this, but… More.” She rose, ignoring the pain in her legs, pouring the soldier more before sitting back down, another soldier simply grabbing the bottle and guzzling it down. “But duty....”

“Is a duty.” She agreed. They were all working for the Reds; it was in their best interests to do their job, bow their head and work. The soldiers shared the bottle in silence, until the Commander appeared, as well, and swiped down the bottle. They all rose, standing in position.

“Botkin was alerted. Into position.” He said, and eyed Yelena. She looked at him back, and he pawed the bottle as the soldiers left.

“Is there any way I can be of use, Commander?” Yelena asked, and the commander took a swig from the bottle.

“If you can stay awake, we might need help with the bodies.”

The bodies, he said. As if they weren’t human anymore. As if they were just like the sacks of meat animals became after being hunted and butchered.

He spoke of the soon to be dead royal family in such a definite way, like it was already out of his control, that all her doubts about the orders being from Moscow were squashed. Truly, they were from the leader himself. There was no room for doubt anymore.

“Commander.” She replied, and he left the bottle on the table. Yelena rose up from her seat, going to huddle herself near the fire, and pretended the screams she heard soon after were just the cracklings of the pine.

* * *

The bodies were twisted and gruesome, but it wasn’t Yelena’s job to say anything about their appearance; she was here to dig the hole to put Anastasia and Alexei’s bodies to rest. That was her job.

“This way, if they are found, they won’t think it’s the royal family,” The Commander had explained, waving at a random direction that Yelena and another two soldiers were to go, with their cart containing small bodies. “Because, you see, two bodies are missing. Twelve is the royalty. Nine? Oh, it happens.”

His “ _it happens_ ” had inspired no good feelings in her, but she had just nodded, shovel in hand, sitting near the bodies as the two soldiers, ghostly quiet, sat in the front. Yelena knew she should feel disgusted, but what was the difference between a human and a pig after death? None; they were both sacks of meat. The only difference was that one could not be eaten. In theory.

She looked around, feeling herself too close to the bodies, and closed her eyes, wondering what Dimitri would’ve said, if he had seen her like this, sitting between two bodies - one of a girl her age, the other of a boy who was the same age Klavdiya would’ve been, had she lived -, but she figured he’d be proud, since Dimitri now worked for the Party.

Yelena, grasping firmly her shovel, opened her eyes and looked to Anastasia, the girl pale as death, her lips, blue-ish in the rising light of morning and slightly open, fog leaving through -

Wait, what? _Fog_? With one quick look to the soldiers, to assure herself they weren’t looking to her, she put her finger under Anastasia’s nose, shock seeping through her body when she was met with labored, quiet breath. A finger to her throat proved that the girl had some raspy breath, some fight left in her, and -

Oh, cursed be the god she had prayed to, as a kid and then never again - _Anastasia was alive_.

Looking to the soldiers, she formed a plan. It was stupid, but this girl, this girl was her age, and Yelena -

She couldn’t let Anastasia die - every single part of her mind solidly refused this as an option, refused to even _consider_ this as a possibility -, and as the cart bumped through the ground, she prayed to every listening deity that Anastasia did not let out a single sound, that she stayed quiet, that her chest didn’t rise too much or too little, that she stayed in the realm of life and death she was stuck into.

When the soldiers determined it was a good place as any to bury the frail corpses, Yelena worked quickly, praying under her breath to a god she didn’t know existed, but hoped so. The soldiers didn’t seem to notice, drunk as skunks, and Yelena couldn’t help but wonder if they were shaken so much for death, what were they like during the great war? She had never been to the front, but when the boys from her town came to a visit, they seemed shaken in the same way.

Well, except for Dimitri, but Dimitri had always been odd. Dimitri also had never visited.

When the bodies were buried - Yelena made sure to let the earth loose, as to facilitate her later work, she quietly faced the soldiers. They looked at her, somber, confused, drunk and gloomy. Good.

“You can go ahead,” She told them, and the two stared at her, disbelief written in their faces. She grabbed the shovel strongly against herself, and one of them rolled their eyes. “I wish to pray for their souls.”

One of them huffed, the other rolling his eyes, but they left her, taking the bloodied cart and leaving the resting place of Alexei. She counted down every heart beat until they were more or less sixty beats away, and started to work over Anastasia. She thanked herself to have kept the shovel, and didn’t waste a breath on praying.

When the girl was revealed, she put her ear to the girl’s chest, dirtied with mud, and released the shakiest breath when she found Anastasia’s heart still beating, weak as it was. Good - the girl was still fighting, and Yelena wished she continued to do so.

Yelena rose, looking around; to her home - a small hut where she lived alone, after her family had died off a winter sickness and she had survived, leaving her alone and with no relatives - it would be, _maybe_ , a few kilometers. And she still, perhaps, needed to go back to the House, see if they needed her anymore. If they didn’t, good, but if they did, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to care for Anastasia.

Cursing her own heart, handling Anastasia as gently as she could, she put the almost dead girl in her back, and set to her home. The walk would be rough, but she would do whatever it took to have Anastasia survive, even if it came at the expense of herself.

* * *

She arrived at her home when the sun was heavy on the sky, shining on her path like a curse, and luck, somehow, was on her side, today; none of her neighbours were around. She avoided a sigh of relief, focusing on the sound of the river nearby, roaring in her ears as she left the shade of the forest, going for the clear path that took her to her house, filled with weeds she never had time to take out anymore. Her parents would be ashamed.

Yelena scuttled home, closing her door quickly behind her with one hand (dirty with mud, encrusted with blood) and kept her windows shut, as she gently laid down Anastasia in her bed. Dirt and blood almost instantly seeped through, and Yelena avoided cringing.

She’d have to burn down the sheets later. Maybe she could salvage the blankets, but the sheets were a goner.  

No, that wasn’t what Yelena should focus on, right now; she rose, making sure her black hair was in a tight bun, and went for the terrible little first aid kit her mother had put together from her little tour to the hospitals during the war. She had been a sister of mercy, and when she had come back - when Russia had left the war, which now seemed like a lifetime ago -, she had taught Yelena a little of the basics. Just enough to get by. It hadn’t been enough to save Klavdiya and Alexandra, but...

But now, she thanked her mother; the knowledge that had been passed down to her would come in handy. Yelena picked up the battered little box and went back to Anastasia. The girl’s breath, now that she was being warmed up, seemed more laboured, and as such, Yelena made sure to work quickly, cutting away with her sewing scissors the fabric almost glued to her body with blood, assessing the wounds - stabbing wounds, it seemed, which made Yelena wonder why they stabbed her, if the soldiers had guns, in the first place - for a moment before starting to work.

She cleaned the wounds, biting back a smile every time Anastasia’s breath hitched - it was bound to mean something good, _right_? She was reacting, after all! -, sewing her back, and hoping, a fervent prayer she had thought long forgotten gracing her lips, no infection settled in. However, with how Anastasia had been handled, she’d be lucky to not be infected with something that would have Yelena end up with a corpse in her house. A corpse would be difficult to explain.

When she was finished, Anastasia didn’t seem so pale, even though her breath still seemed weak. And yet, she had to show up to work, see what the Commander’s orders were now that the family was gone. Cleaning her forehead with the back of her hand, noticing, for the first time, how much her hands were shaking, she took a bath to clean herself, before heading back to the House.

Cursing her own inability to write and read beyond her own name, Yelena all but ran there, praying to no one she could come back before Anastasia woke up.

* * *

The Commander paid her, and she stared, incredulous, at the money. It was more than expected for her measly one month of work, if the weight of the coin sack was anything to go by.

“The Whites mustn’t know.” _Ah_ , so it was a bribe. Helena nodded, putting it in her pockets. At least now she was sure she could feed herself and Anastasia. The man hesitated for a moment, and Yelena waited. “And, if you don’t mind me saying, Saltanova, leave Yekaterinburg.”

Had she heard it right? How was she to leave the only place she had ever known? Yelena barely knew how to read, how was she supposed to feed herself?

“Why is that, Commander?” She asked, and he seemed… _Nervous_ , almost. _The deaths must really take its toll on him_ , she thought, and then scoffed at herself; why would the man behind the gun be nervous at death? _She_ should be the nervous one.

“The Whites are too close to this town. Leave, Saltanova, and take this secret with you. Dismissed.” Yelena nodded, taking her leave, unwittingly fired from her job.

She took a detour before heading back home, buying enough food it wouldn’t trip the local network of gossip, but that also could feed both her and the recovering Anastasia with no problems. Which meant it bound her to make soup. In the middle of summer. With a sigh, Yelena decided she deserved to take a nap, later.

* * *

When she arrived in her home, to her surprise - and fear, cold like the winter in her body - Anastasia was awake, looking at the ceiling, face mended into a frown. Her blue-gray eyes turned to face her, and instead of the rage from before, Yelena found nothing but a great, blank emotion, like a fresh piece of paper.

“Hello?” Yelena started, closing the door behind her, and Anastasia tried to sit, which just made her whine in pain. Leaving the food fall to the floor, she went to Anastasia’s bedside, shushing her. “No, no. You’re recovering, don’t move too harshly. It might undo the stitches.”

Anastasia stopped moving, but it were her empty eyes that left a bad taste in Yelena’s mouth. What had happened? Was Anastasia’s case harder than expected? Was Yelena way over her head?

“Who am I? Where am I?” She whispered and Yelena had to avoid cheering.

She had memory loss. Yelena paused, and bit her tongue, trying to make up something that would convince her.

“I don’t know,” She lied. It was better this way. Easier, too. “I found you bloodied and battered by the side of the road,and took you home.”

Anastasia nodded, feeble and weak, and Yelena wondered what she should do. Anastasia tried to touch her own throat - perhaps she was thirsty? -, and stopped when she winced. So, she was in pain. Yelena started to think if she had pain medicine in her house, but first, she had to prioritize something else.

“What do you remember?” Yelena asked, hoping to cover her bases as soon as possible. If she knew what Anastasia remembered, she could lie her way out.

Anastasia seemed to struggle with her memories - or _lack_ of then, rather -, and Yelena excused herself to get a glass of water for Anastasia, and she fed the girl little sips, her mind working to think about her past.

“I think… I remember my name.” A pause, and Yelena prayed she didn’t tell her own name. Anything but Anastasia, _please_... “Anya, I think.”

Yelena thanked God for the small blessing she had received, and frowned.

“I can’t say I have ever heard of an Anya here, or if anyone with your appearance.” Anastasia deflated at this, and Yelena bit her tongue as she watched her wince with pain. “Would you like anything for the pain? I think I may have some medicine.”

Anastasia seemed relieved, nodding weakly, and Yelena went for the first aid kit. Some fumbling revealed she still had some cough syrup that made her family stop moaning in pain, and as such, she fed Anastasia a spoonful. Anastasia thanked her, and Yelena smiled.

The girl fell in a fitful sleep soon after, and Yelena, shoulders sagging, decided two things: one, she was to make dinner. Two, she would move to somewhere else as soon as possible.

In Yekaterinburg, all seemed to know how much each other ate and bought, who lived with who and the happenings in each other’s lives. Yelena couldn’t, possibly, stay and allow people to speculate who Anya could be, and if she wasn’t the now lost Grand Duchess. There was also the matter of the closing by Whites, and if they found her - who had worked in the House, who had colluded with the murders, who was hiding the Grand Duchess -, who knew what they’d do? Yelena was but a mere servant and they, they were powerful men, and Yelena didn’t wish to die.

Moving away was the best option. She’d have to check her funds, but anywhere was better than here.

Besides, she could always count with Dimitri. But right now, dinner.

* * *

Anastasia, Yelena found out, recovered quickly, as if the stabbing she had received were nothing but scratches. With her recovery, her personality came back, the impotent fury she felt now directed not at Yelena, but at her lack of memories.

“Cheer up, comrade.” Yelena told her, one such night, the train tickets for St. Peters - no, _Leningrad_ \- she had bought for the next week in her pocket. She also had sent a letter to Dimitri, with the help of the local teacher, and he had gotten them a little place, for a while. “Think of it as a clean slate. Who knows what your life was like before, to have ended with you thrown out to die in a ditch?”

“Maybe you’re right, Yelena, but I still feel like I’m missing _something_.” Anastasia replied, eating the soup. It had been soup for dinner and lunch every day, and Yelena could feel that both of them were growing sick from it.

Yelena smiled, taking out the train tickets from her pocket - it had cost her most of her savings, and the little apartment almost everything that had been left. The bribe the whites asked had taken the rest. -, sliding it over the table. Anastasia, one eyebrow rising, picked one, reading it (she had kept her ability to read, as Yelena had found out one day, when Anastasia herself had been surprised at her ability to read the can of tomatoes Yelena had traded one old dress of her mother for) for a moment, frowning.

“I’d say I never heard of Leningrad, but then, I haven’t heard about most things.” Her tone of voice was bitter, and Yelena could understand.

Even with no memories, Anastasia’s personality shone through clear as daylight.

“It used to have another name. Saint Petersburg? Maybe you’ve heard of it.” Yelena was playing with something she shouldn’t have, but she felt sorry for Anastasia. To be without memories was to be without a life before, and to trust a stranger blindly took much faith. Yelena commended her for it, but she felt pity.

She could see Anastasia struggle, and she sighed, but frustration welled up in her throat.

“Nothing?” She prodded, eating her soup, and Anastasia shook her head, sliding the train tickets back to Yelena. She took them, and put it back in her pocket. “Well, maybe you just were a country bumpkin, or something. One who couldn’t even read a map.”

Anastasia cracked a smile, beautiful and blinding, and something pulled at Yelena’s heartstrings. Guilt, probably.

“As you said, comrade, who knows?” And with that, she went back to eating. Yelena wanted to release a shaky breath, but she didn’t.

Theoretically, Yelena knew, but it was a secret that died with her.

* * *

The train trip to Leningrad was easy and simple, and Anastasia seemed at home in a train.

Yelena, meanwhile, who had never traveled through train, was having motion sickness. Anastasia seemed to have fun with that, though, but she glared at the Grand Duchess through a queasy stomach, sure that, if she were to open her mouth, she would puke.

The stops - when the soldiers would come onboard, either leaving, boarding or just greeting their comrades - were always the worst part, because Yelena was too busy trying to both control her stomach and keep Anastasia out of sight and mind.

Her stomach came to good use, at these times - she just pretended she had to go outside to puke, and instead walked around the station, in the shadows, Anastasia with her looking around as if it was new to her.

Well, it was. Yelena didn’t know how the royal family traveled, but she was sure they’d never stop on the little rundown train stations they were stopping, filled with people with hollow eyes and death in their wake.

Arriving in Leningrad made her puke; luckily, outside the train. It meant, however, that she was unpresentable for meeting her escort, her old childhood friend Dimitri.

Dimitri was the son of Yelena’s neighbor, good old Mrs. and Mr. Pasternak; he was four years older than her, and had gone to the front before the required age with some rather clever falsification of papers.

Now, however, Dimitri was in a good position inside the Party, and had some ways into the bureaucracy Yelena alone didn’t have. Cleaning herself better, as Anastasia held off her hair, Yelena thanked whoever listened that his mother had asked her to keep in touch.

Now, that Mrs. Pasternak was dead and gone and Mr. Pasternak had left to the front and did not come back, she was the closest Dimitri had to family. Which meant he owed her.

 _Probably_. Who even knew.

“Come, he must be waiting for us,” She told Anastasia, who shouldered their bags - simple duffel bags, and she had traded soup in cans for it. They had brought some other food, but it was little. Sleeping was better at warding off the hunger than the meager rations they had brought.

“You didn’t tell me much about this Dimitri fellow.” There was a vague curiosity,  a vague accusation, in Anastasia’s tone, but she was too weak to care. Her mouth tasted absolutely vile, and her limbs felt like they were made of soup. Maybe they were.

“He’s a friend. A cousin, almost.” Yelena replied, and Anastasia nodded, as Yelena used her as support. If it were up to her, Yelena would never, ever set foot in a train again.

“It must be nice to have cousins. Not that I’d know, anyway.” Yelena thought Anastasia had cousins, but it wasn’t as if she had ever researched the royal family. She was barely literate, how was she supposed to do any reading? Anastasia faced Yelena, and she was still the same girl she had been, the same rage and fury.

Yelena wondered how Anastasia was before the captivity. Was she a good kid? Was she a rebel? What was Anastasia, before Yelena had ever met her, before she had been a captive on a house because of her birth, before they had killed her?

Well, there was that one time - long ago, a picture in a chocolate - but it didn’t matter anymore. She noticed Dimitri, looking like the model soldier in his little uniform, and Yelena sped up, Anastasia picking up pace as she forgot about being sick.

They looked similar, Yelena and Dimitri: the same pale skin, the same black hair, the same shape of their nose - when they were kids and the lake was their only mirror, they’d have thought themselves twins, had it not been the difference in their ages.

The similarities ended with their eyes - while Yelena had the dark eyes of a moonless night with the bags under her eyes to match, Dimitri had the gentle eyes of a forest.

“Mitya!” She called, and he turned to face her, a smile gracing gently his lips. He had always been the prettiest of the boys in Yekaterinburg, and even war couldn’t mark his face.

A pity she had no interest in him; in another life, perhaps she could have married him.

“Lena.” He said his name like one that met his long-lost lover, and she could feel Anastasia fidgeting by her side, suddenly uncomfortable. His green eyes met Anastasia, and if he recognized her, he said nothing, nor did he act. “And that must be Anya?”

“I suppose so.” Anastasia shrugged, and he looked back at Yelena. “And you must be Dimitri?”

“That’d be me, yes.” He replied, looking around - his eyes assuming that shifty tone they did every time he did something that wasn’t in the correct side of law.

Anastasia’s papers, she supposed. He’d give them later, out of sight.

“I assume you have a place for us to sleep, or should we look for a marquise already?” Yelena asked, and while Anastasia’s shocked face, betraying her cool exterior for a moment, and the two laughed. Some others looked at them, but they started to move instead, Dimitri - ever the gentleman - guiding them away from the masses.

“It’s not funny to laugh about a girl with amnesia. I’m frail, you see.” Anastasia grumbled, but that just made Yelena snort. _Frail_ , the girl who survived an execution. Sure, she was the most fragile thing ever.

“Forgive me, miss, but you do not seem the frail type. Had Lena not told me, I’d say you were quite the healthy lady of the court.” Even if she was smiling, she was cursing Dimitri’s keen eyes. Damn it. What had he noticed, that Yelena had missed smoothing over? “No, excuse me, I misspoke. No lady of the old court could seem as headstrong as you.”

“Do I? I wish I knew.” There was pure, acid, caustic anger in her reply, and it just made Dimitri smile at Yelena. She glared at him and he started telling them about Leningrad as if he was a local.

The war had changed him, but somehow, it was just barely perceptible - or Yelena was just used to him that she couldn’t notice. But there was a difference.

The apartment was small, cramped. The walls were thin, and the windows didn’t shut completely. The heater was barely working. There was an obnoxious rust stain on the wall. There was only one bed. Yelena was almost sure she could smell the rats hiding in the walls.

“But, this was the best I could manage.” Dimitri said, waving at the apartment that had almost wiped out her savings. Anastasia seemed fascinated with it, like its small size was enough. “And I’m sorry about the heater, but if you share the bed, it won’t be really needed, will it?”

Yelena and Anastasia looked at each other - Yelena had been sleeping near the stove, curled up near it and waking up like a cat covered in the soot, to allow Anastasia to heal better -, but it was Anastasia who spoke up.

“I have no say in the matter. I also don’t really care. Besides, it sounds like fun, you know? Kind of like sleeping in the same bed as your sister.” Anastasia went to look around, unaware of what she had just uttered, and Dimitri send Yelena one long look.

Dimitri _knew_. Maybe they had not spoken about it yet, but he knew there was more to her story of “a girl I found on the side of the road”.

“Hey, Anya, me and Lena will go out to get you two some nice dinner, what do you say?” Dimitri decided, all on his own, and Yelena glared at him, smoothing over her expression when Anastasia popped up from the other room.

“Bring something good. No offense, Yelena, but I’m tired of soups.” Yelena smiled, and agreed, polite platitudes she had said to other soldiers, and even to the Commander, when they met.

With that, she and Dimitri left the apartment - lucky to have their own, but as she saw around, _too_ lucky. Yelena half wondered what Dimitri did, to get them that place, but she also didn’t want to know.

“Who is she?” He asked, arm in hers, walking around, as if they were two members of royalty.

“A girl I found on the side of the road.” Yelena replied, sticking to her story. Dimitri smiled like she was that dumb child he once knew, and she felt like one.

“Don’t play me, Lena. I do know where you worked.” Dimitri said, purring, almost, and he traded a few pieces of paper - she couldn’t read what it was, but it had the symbol of the Party - for a few cans of beans, with such expertise Yelena wondered how many times he had done this. He passed her the cans, and Yelena carried them in a careful pile. If two cans could be called a pile, anyway.

“Do you?” Yelena hummed, and Dimitri nodded. Did he work for the Cheka? Perhaps this was how he knew. Maybe he had seen her name and connected the dots.

“It is none of my business what you did, really, but know that there are people watching. And if she is who I think she is, Lena…”

There was a pause for him to trade one of the can of beans for some battered can of stew, and Yelena knew that this conversation could only end in two ways: with a death threat or with a death.

“I’ll do my best to protect you. It is better to have her on our side, spouting off propaganda about us, than to _them_.” She stared, incredulous, at Dimitri, and he seemed to glow. _Bastard_. “If she decides to, ah, _refuse_ us, I might have to tell on her. That rust stain in your new house is there for a reason, although I can’t confirm it is rust.”

Yelena stared at him, eyes half-lidded.

“Is this a threat?” This wasn’t what she wanted to ask. Her real question would be “ _do you think Sergei would like this game you’re playing?_ ”, but the wound was still too raw on them.

“Should it be anything else, Lena?” He asked, and she knew the question was fully rhetorical. The smile on his face, however, did not match his tone, cheery and happy as they walked around, trading goods for food. The ladies seemed to love him, at least, smiling and chirping and giving way too much because he was pretty and dressed like a soldier in a high position. Logically, Yelena should be jealous of all the attention he was getting.

He was pretty, Yelena supposed. Maybe in another life, one where Yelena was  _actually_ interested in men, and Dimitri was interested more in women than in the soldiers he lived with, they could have gotten married, but that sounded as far off as having the monarchy restored.

Her eyes were only for Anastasia, Yelena noticed, blinking in surprise. She always knew of her every movement, the way her short hair - now just past her ears, growing surprisingly quickly for how badly they were eating - blonde in sunlight and her eyes, greyish and blue like the surface of a frozen lake, like snow dirty with soot. Her hands were charming, graceful as if she was still Anastasia, not Anya, even in the way she held the old cutlery Yelena hadn’t sold for food. It was almost like she remembered, without ever remembering.

Yelena knew Anastasia, but Anya was a mystery.

“Mmmh, I think you have enough for a week.” That brought Yelena back from her thoughts, as she looked to the now pile of cans in her arms. That was… Quite a lot. “Can’t say I can do this again, because you two need a job, but it was surprisingly fun.“

“Does the Party give you food?” Yelena asked, as Dimitri guided her through the streets of Leningrad, back to her small apartment, back to Anastasia.

Dimitri smiled, a mystery on his lips, and Yelena huffed.

When they arrived, Dimitri excused himself - “ _the revolution must go on, ladies,_ ” he had said, and Anastasia had rolled her eyes at that as he hugged Yelena, putting the girl’s papers on her pocket -, and disappeared through the crowd down under. Yelena watched him go, one ear on Anastasia struggling with the cans.

Anastasia stopped all too suddenly, but Yelena was still looking for Dimitri in the crowd, not listening fully to the other girl. How much did he know? How much did the Party know? Was Dimitri a friend, or a spy? Were they still friends, after her request? Was Dimitri using her to move politically? What if Anastasia remembered who she was? Would she have to worry about being woken up by a knife in the gut, if Anastasia did not behave appropriately?  Would she have to hear more screaming? Would her grave be an unnamed one, in the middle of the forest?

Was her decision to save Anastasia the best one Yelena could have made?

“Do you love him?” Anastasia blurted out, and Yelena whipped her head to the girl, confusion brewing in her mind and making her forget her early questions. “Dimitri, I mean.”

“What?” Yelena asked, and Anastasia shrugged, fidgeting with the can of diced carrots. “No, no. Dimitri is like a brother to me. Besides, he isn’t exactly interested in me, nor in any other woman.”

Anastasia frowned, and when the words sunk in, she let out a breathless little “oh!” in the same intonation Tatiana had used when she had found a mistake in her writings. It was rather cute.

“And… There aren’t any other men in your life?” Anastasia asked, and Yelena shrugged. “Besides Dimitri, I mean.”

“If there was, I wouldn’t have left Yekaterinburg.” Leaving her place on the window, Yelena moved for the cans, noticing how Anastasia smiled like it was a whole new world to her. “Now come on, let’s make dinner.”

“Great!” Her voice seemed happier, too, and Yelena tallied it up for the promise of dinner. “What’s for dinner?”

“Soup.” Anastasia let out a whine, and Yelena just giggled as an answer. Things would be all right, much probably.

 


	2. Chapter One: A rumor in Leningrad

The first time Yelena slept in the same bed as Anastasia, it was quite the experience. They were in the same room, for once - before, Yelena always slept near the fire, Anastasia on the bed they had for when a member of the family was sick, and now they were forced to share it, considering there was no excuse of Anastasia being in recovery anymore.

The first half of the night is normal - Yelena sleeps soundly, facing the wall, and Anastasia slept curled in herself, like a kitten. The moonlight could be seen through the thin curtains, and bathed their room in a pale, soft light.

And then, when the moon was at its peak, Anastasia started to stir, and Yelena - always a light sleeper, ever since she had to take care of Alexandra and Klavdiya during the war - cracked open one eye, unsure if she had heard anything, truly, or if it just had been a sound coming from the streets.

Soon after, she heard Anastasia muttering - a mixture of Russian and another other language she couldn’t exactly identify, but what she spoke of Russian was telling enough; Anastasia was dreaming on the execution. She could hear the girl muttering prayers, and soon murmurs became screams, the girl thrashing and kicking and yelling as Yelena sat up, wondering if she had done something to set it off during the day. A comment, an action -

Anastasia screamed, sitting up and panting, fat tears leaving her eyes as she all but screeched, incomprehensible, passing her hands through her short hair, and Yelena touched her shoulder, the girl whimpering at the touch, but turning to face her.

“An…” She started, biting her tongue when the real name of the girl in front of her almost passed her lips, and started again. “Anya?”

The girl’s eyes were blue grey and shimmering, the tears only accentuating their colour, as the pale moonlight was. She made a wordless verbalization, and threw herself in Yelena’s arms, sobbing like a kicked puppy.

Her sobs, although, as sleep wore off them, grew quieter, until Anastasia grew stiff, taking herself off Yelena’s arms, blinking and frowning.

“Are you alright?” Asked Yelena, ignoring the way her pajama felt wet. That was a matter for later.

“Yes, I… I can’t seem to remember why I was crying, it’s all.” The frown persisted, and she looked into the wet splotch in Yelena’s chest. She blushed, and it was rather cute, but perhaps if it was morning. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Yelena, I’m not sure what came over me, I just…”

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” She waved it off, smiling. “It’ll dry. Now, come on, let’s sleep. It is late.’

Anastasia nodded, and they fell back in bed - but this time, it wasn’t barely five minutes before they were back to back that Yelena felt the girl touch her back, and she turned; Anastasia latched onto her like a child to her mother, like a woman to her lover, and they slept in a tangled mess of limbs.

Yelena knew the girl’s dreams are of the execution, days later; she kicks and whines and yells in her sleep, and when Yelena wakes her up, frantic, wondering if Anastasia has remembered, she learns that Anastasia _just had a nightmare, that was all._ Yelena comforts her, and holds Anastasia in her arms until the two fall asleep again, waking up every morning not knowing where one ends and the other begins.

It becomes habit.

After a while, Yelena was used to it, and the frequency of Anastasia’s nightmares dwindled down, from every night without fail to, maybe, once or twice a month, when she was stressed about their job.

Dimitri had gotten them a job, maybe three days after their arrival in Leningrad; a cleaning job, sure, but a job. Yelena was to clean the old palaces, make way for the new government to establish itself there. Anastasia, meanwhile, was to clean the streets, sweeping all day and arriving at night, tired, wet from the snow, shivering with cold and chatty.

When Yelena had encountered Dimitri on a corridor, during their first days on their jobs - he was always everywhere and nowhere, disappearing and appearing in his soldier uniform -, she confronted him, a broom in one hand and some pearls and diamonds in her pockets. Lucky find, would probably get her a few cans of food.

“Anastasia couldn’t clean this place,” She waved to the old palace, that had been looted to hell and back, a shadow of its former splendorous glory. “Because you were afraid Anya would remember, right?”

“Glad you can read my mind now, Lena.” He replied, charming as a cat, as she started to sweep again, glaring pointedly at his muddied boots. Damn it. “Is Anya settling in well?”

“Like a peasant girl in the big city.” She replied, bitterly, because it was the truth; Anastasia was always giddy at everything, like a child. She couldn’t help but think Anastasia had been like that, once, a long time ago, before the revolution had destroyed her life.

Dimitri smiled, and produced, from his pocket, something. It looked like a card, and it was; when she picked it from his hands, it was the long-lost card of Anastasia she had received through a chocolate bar. Looking up, Yelena found Dimitri had disappeared through the empty corridors, leaving her with an old, faded card of the person Anastasia used to be.

“... And then Esfir was all, ‘Anya, if you call Leningrad _Saint Petersburg_ once more, the men from the State Police will have a chat with you.’” Anya huffed, through spoonfuls of their soup - leather tonight, and leather tomorrow, since the grain reserves were dry and not even Dimitri could get them some food -, and Yelena came back to the current year, her memories being put in its place.

Five years had passed, and Anastasia now looked like - well, like a Grand Duchess, were she impoverished and hungry. Her blonde hair was brittle but long, and her eyes were shining, not with fury, but with the new things she discovered every day, while sweeping the streets. Yelena, who now worked cleaning the State Police’s headquarters, wondered what could be that.

Back to what Anastasia had said, though, Yelena snorted, playing with her watery soup.

“Yeah, _right_ , as if Dimitri would ever arrest you.” Anastasia smiled, childish. Dimitri, meanwhile smiled. The leather had been a courtesy of a belt, tonight, and they didn’t ask where it had come from.

“I would absolutely arrest you, but I’d do my best to make sure you got food once a while.” He replied, leaning in as if to tell a secret. “By the way, comrades, have you heard? There is a rumour in Leningrad, and I was wondering, Anya, if you could keep your ears open.”

Yelena froze, glaring at Dimitri; both ignored her.

“Sure.” Dimitri smiled, cat-like and dangerous, and Yelena wanted him out of her home and her life and away from Anastasia.

She should have never asked for his help.

“A few friends are saying, Anya dear, if you can believe it, that Anastasia Romanov is alive and in Berlin.” Anastasia’s face became pale as death, the liquid in her spoon falling into the bowl again as she stared, eyes big and huge and fearing, at Dimitri, who was all too relaxed, staring.

“No, she can’t be.” Anastasia said, even her words trembling like a leaf. “She can’t be in Berlin.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, and Yelena - powerless against Dimitri - held her spoon, knuckles turning white with the strength applied - stared at Anastasia. “So you heard something?”

“No! No, I just…” She rose, sudden and putting a hand against her forehead, as if trying to block something. “Excuse me, I _just_ got the worst headache…”

And with that, Anastasia left for their room. Yelena rose as well, ready to go after her, but she needed to do something first.

“Get out.” She told Dimitri, who rose, not seeming hurt or anything. He started to walk to the door, and she accompanied him, not trusting Dimitri enough to not be sure he wouldn’t just lurk in the hallways. “I trusted you. What if she remembers, you stupid fool? What if she wants to go to her family? What if...”

 _What if she leaves me_ was ready to leave her tongue, betraying her (forbidden) feelings for the entire world, if she hadn’t contained herself. Dimitri, meanwhile stared at Yelena, like he knew what she was about to say.

Knowing him as well as Yelena did, he probably knew how she felt.

“Then Anya dear would play into our hands.” She stared, quizzical, at Dimitri. Dimitri smiled, leaning in the doorway. “Think, Lena, for a moment. Use that empty head of yours. If, let’s say, Xenia and Olga, her dear aunts, believe this impostor…”

“So the impostor _is_ real.” Yelena interjected and stopped to think for a moment. She had thought it had been a false rumour, but no - there was someone claiming to be Anastasia, and if she was charismatic enough, if she was good enough, if she was _interested in the return of a monarchy enough…_

Yelena had never been into history, or, _well_ , anything, considering her lack of formal education, but she knew that history was full of pretenders, and Anastasia was the  Czar’s last living child. If the pretender played her part, she could…

“If Xenia and Olga believe this impostor, then they will support whoever she wants as a claimant to the throne. If enough people believe her, there is a chance another revolution will sweep up…” She wanted to say _Russia_ , but this wasn’t Russia anymore. Her dark eyes stared at Dimitri’s forest green ones, and he smiled. “We cannot afford another revolution, can we?”

“You were always so smart, Lena.” He cooed mockingly, messing up her hair before disappearing through the open door. Yelena watched his back go, before closing and locking her door, thoughts racing through her mind.

If Anastasia went to see this impostor - or Xenia and Olga, maybe tell them herself to not believe the girl who was faking to be her -, then there was a heavy, heavy chance she’d stay with her aunts, memory retrieved from the depths of her mind, that she would not return to Leningrad, to Yelena, to their little apartment and bed and terrible jobs and hunger.

Well, why would she? Why would she go back to a job sweeping the streets, when she could be a Grand Duchess and do nothing at all? Why would Anastasia come back to their little apartment and shared bed, when she could sleep in a bed made of feathers and never have to walk around someone else because the space was too cramped? Why would she come back to not being sure if there’d be a meal in her table the next morning, if she could eat like royalty every day?

Yelena knew what her choice would be, were she in Anastasia’s shoes, and she knew that, if Anastasia chose to go, she would never even met her again. Biting back tears, Yelena shook her head, deciding to retire early… After she cleaned the dishes. Rats only were good in soup.

As such, it was to her surprise, when the dishes were clean and squeaky - well, as clean as it could be, when even soap was scarce -, she went to bed, and found Anastasia sitting, back against the ratty wooden board, thin wool blankets scrunched up around her, eyes big and red, face trailed with tears.

Yelena abandoned all pretense of calmness, all but throwing herself in bed, patting Anastasia’s head for a moment, checking her up. She seemed fine, physically, but what about the matters of the heart?

“Are you alright, Anya?” She asked, her hands between the girl’s cheeks, and Anastasia nodded, sniffing. Yelena snorted. “You don’t sound alright. Far from it, in fact.”

“Sorry, I just…“ A pause for another sniff, snot in her face like a child, and Yelena used the sheet to clean it. That took a huff from her - there was nothing Anastasia hated more than being treated as a child, but it seemed she couldn’t care enough tonight to protest -, but Yelena ignored, her thumb gently rolling along Anastasia’s face. “I feel so sad for poor Anastasia. I wouldn’t like someone pretending to be me, you know? She’s probably dead, but still. It’s not fair to her.”

Yelena stared at her, and Anastasia’s eyes looked dull, suddenly. A lifeless doll, for a moment, in front of Yelena.

“Anyone pretending to be someone else and duping people is not a good person.” This is where Yelena would, if she was a good Party member, if she put Soviet interests before her own, subtly tell Anastasia to tell that to Xenia and Olga herself: but Yelena was a mere human, a mere servant of her feelings, so she said nothing. “And I feel… Betrayed by this, oddly enough.”

“Really?” Yelena asked, and Anastasia nodded. She let go of Anastasia’s face, aware of what she had been doing, and sat back against the wood, wringing her hands as she ignored the way Anastasia blushed a little. “How come?”

“I don’t know. I just… Have these flashes.” Anastasia shrugged, and Yelena watched, careful. “It’s like I’m not myself, it’s like… I’m someone else, with different opinions and says and thoughts who says that I _should_ be angry, that I _should_ go there and slap that girl because she is not…”

Anastasia shook her head, and took a deep breath. Then, like nothing had happened at all, she smiled, pretty and like a Grand Duchess, like the one in the chocolate picture she had kept inside a locked drawer. Well, it used to be unlocked, but Yelena had sold the key for some coins. A coincidence, really.

“We should sleep, comrade. We all know comrade Ryokov wants us to sleep and work, wouldn’t he?” Anastasia joked, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her forehead had a scar, and Yelena couldn’t remember if she had treated it or not. Maybe not; it looked old and faded, like a childhood scar.

“Would we be good soviets if we didn’t obey him?” Yelena replied, kicking off her shoes as Anastasia laid down, the servant covering them quietly. As always, they started the night back to back, and Yelena stared down the other wall, mind racing.

Anastasia had almost said _“she is not me”_ , hadn’t she? How aware was her? Yelena wished she could read Anastasia’s mind, to know what she thought, not the facade of a girl she had a feeling Anastasia was putting up. The closest she had ever gotten was whenever Anastasia woke up from her nightmares, between the time of realizing she wasn’t in that cellar in Yekaterinburg anymore and that she was in Leningrad, alive and well and not bleeding to death; Anastasia would sniff and let tears out while murmuring prayers, and when Yelena would shake her up, and she’d be confused, wondering why the tears were leaving her eyes and why she was shaking.

She heard Anastasia sob quietly after a few minutes, when she presumably had thought Yelena was asleep, and turned to face her, sitting in bed, the girl’s shoulders trembling even in the half light the bare illumination outside provided, through their ratty old curtains. Yelena put a hand on Anastasia’s shoulder, and the girl grew stiff for a moment, before turning to face Yelena, tears on her blue-grey eyes.

“Why am I feeling like this, Yelena?” She cried out, sitting on the bed, only to throw herself in Yelena’s chest, hugging her. Yelena could feel the tears on her shoulders, wet and cold. Her hands flew to Anastasia’s back, drawing circles on it. “Why am I feeling like they have replaced me, like someone has forgotten me? Why is that, Yelena?”

“I don’t know, Anya, I truly don’t.” She replied, between the sobs that wrecked through the girl, heart breaking like glass. She knew why, and yet, it wasn’t like she just could reveal the truth, now, could she?

She could, but then Anastasia would run to her dear aunts - and Yelena was a selfish, _terrible_ human being. So, instead of telling Anastasia why she felt replaced, she comforted the girl until the two fell asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

Yelena always left Anastasia at work, and then went to work herself. This fine morning, however, as she watched Anastasia skip down to where her usual coworkers where, she noticed there was a fake spring to her step, the smile on her face with corners too pushed, and her puffy eyes did not allow lies.

Esfir approached her and elbowed her. Yelena shrieked, in answer, and glared at the older woman. She used to be a nun, before she became a communist, and it showed in her rigid expressions, the way she walked and talked. And, apparently, elbowed.

“Did you have a fight with dear Anya?” Esfir asked, her voice cold like the steppes of Siberia. It was almost like being back at home. “Because if you did, I’ll take her side on the divorce.”

“She is upset at something a friend said.” Yelena explained, and the way Esfir raised her eyebrow at her told Yelena she did not believe it. “It’s true. You may ask Dimitri, if he appears.”

Esfir stared at her. Yelena stared back, refusing to bow down.

“I do not trust that friend of yours.” Esfir replied, after a long time. For them, maybe.

“You trust no man but comrade Lenin.” Yelena replied, putting a stray strand of her braid behind her. If Esfir kept making such commentaries, Dimitri would take her for a _talk_. Talks with Dimitri never ended well.

“And he is dead, which should tell you enough.” Esfir replied, huffing and puffing. Yelena shrugged, and went near Anastasia, who was putting her hair up, the braid piled up on top of her head. She looked beautiful, even in the terrible, scratchy uniform of a public sweeper. Anya turned to face her, her smile a smidge too false, and Yelena took Anastasia’s hands - callused, now, after the years of work - in her own.

“Anya, if you need me, I’ll be at...” Yelena said, interrupted by Anastasia rolling her eyes. “ _Anya_.”

“Yes, I know where you’ll be at, don’t worry.” Anya replied, putting one hand in Yelena’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, just work, alright?”

Yelena stared at Anastasia, faking being happy, and nodded, telling her goodbyes for now and leaving for work.

* * *

The worst thing about working on the Joint State Police, Yelena decided, as she gritted her teeth and cleaned Dimitri’s office, was two things: one, no officer ever left their office when she asked if she could clean; two, they all kept staring at her, as if she would read the files they had. Well, that or her ass, but who knew. Besides, it was not like she even could read the files, being barely literate, but still.

At least, Yelena had the comfort to know Dimitri wouldn’t stare at her as she did her job, but she wished he would leave the office for a while. Instead, no; he stayed, humming softly along his radio - how he had gotten his hands on it, a mystery -, reading his papers who told who had betrayed the soviets this day and if anyone had died in the cells down under. Yelena hoped no one had; she hated cleaning duty in the cells.

“Has she decided anything yet, Lena?” He asked, and Yelena turned her head to face him, but Dimitri’s green eyes did not leave the paper he was reading.

“No, and she cried all night because of what you said, bastard.” Yelena replied, and Dimitri chuckled, which infuriated her. “I had to dry her tears, Dimitri. I had to listen to her sobs, all night, because she did not _understand_ why she was so upset.”

“Then tell her, Lena. Tell her who she is.” Dimitri shuffled his papers, keeping his reading. “Tell her to flee to Olga’s arms and become who she truly is. Tell her you’ve known who she was while she didn’t. I’m sure it’ll end up as well as you want it, Lena dear.”

Yelena was ready to chuck all his stupid files on top of his head, when someone knocked on the door, and Dimitri rose his eyes, telling to come in. A man opened the door, and Yelena looked down, going back to working, pretending she wasn’t there.

“Comrade Pasternak, a bunch of street sweepers say they need to see you, urgently.” He said, voice passionless, and Yelena could feel her heart spike up. “They have a girl with them, said you know her. I doubt it, but they _did_ say your full name, comrade.”

“Is she a blonde? Scar in her forehead?” Dimitri asked, voice calm and collected, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man nod. “What it is?”

“The girl fainted, and apparently is not waking up. I wish I could say more, but they are all like headless chickens, screaming for no reason.” The man waved it off, but Dimitri rose, as Yelena turned, eyes wild and huge.

“Take her to the nursery, comrade. The girl is an asset, and I’m sure comrade Ryokov will love to hear you are at fault if anything happens to her.” Dimitri was terrifying, smiling like that, but Yelena could not register it fully, head swimming above the clouds. What could have made Anastasia faint? Was she alright? Did she remember anything, and the shock had sent her to a fitful fainting spell?

The man ran, and Dimitri adjusted his uniform, looking at Yelena. He stared at her, noticing how Yelena fidgeted with worry.

“Lena, I assume you wish to go. If so, follow me.” He said, and Yelena jumped from her place, going to the nursery, not bothering to wait for Dimitri as he locked his door. She knew the old palace they used, in front of the Neva, because she had cleaned it once, before it became what it was. It had been a palace, but Yelena did not know its name.

What if it triggered a memory of Anastasia? What would Yelena do? With that in mind, she flew through the old hallways, luck on her side for once - there was not an officer in sight to scold her for shirking her duties.

When she arrived on the nursery, the nurse present - an old lady who had been on the front, and had lost an eye for it - tried to work as the sweepers Anastasia worked with (Esfir, muttering prayers in silence; Anzhela, apprehensive and pale; Masha, walking in circles and biting her nails) nervously floated around. Yelena made her way to Anastasia’s bedside, where the girl was, asleep, feverish, lips half open. Yelena grabbed her hand, lips half muttering prayers she barely remembered, and where more incoherent strings of well wishing than prayers to a God she didn’t know.

“What happened?” Dimitri asked, but the following conversation wouldn’t register fully, not until later, anyway.

Esfir stepped up, staring down at Dimitri, but her eyes betrayed her harsh posture, full of worry.

“We were at the edge of our territory, catching up with the girls who were cleaning the Vasileostrovsky District, and then Irina told us that she had heard from her cousin’s sister’s friend’s that Olga Alexandrovna - I imagine you must remember who she is, after all, mister secret police - went to visit the Anastasia girl in Berlin.”

“Anya then started to mutter something, but I couldn’t catch what she said.” Anzhela’s soft voice said, the slightest of trembles in her tone. “And then, a truck - “

“The truck backfired. Anya simply… She yelled bloody hell and went out cold.” Masha said, harsh like the winter in Yekaterin - _Sverdlovsk._ That was the town's new name. Yelena’s eyes were focused on Anastasia, the girl comatose, like she had been when Yelena had treated her stabbing wounds. Would she wake up, this time? If so - would she be Anya, whose blue-gray eyes were familiar to Yelena, or would she be Anastasia, whose gray blue eyes were filled to the brim with anger?

“Well, I understand.” Dimitri replied, hands clapping once as the three stared at him. “I need you to leave. We must keep Anya in peace and quiet, and if you allow me some honesty, comrades, you’re not helping.”

There was a muffled wave of protest, that Esfir silenced with a hand. She pointed at Dimitri, matronly and, probably, channeling her interior nun. Anastasia let out a small whine, muttering something that sounded vaguely like one of her sister’s names, but Yelena was too terrified to think.

If - if she was remembering _Olgatatianamaria’s_ name, then what else could she remember? What if - what if -

“We will leave, _comrade_ ,” Acid poured down from Esfir’s mouth, but Dimitri showed no reaction to it. “, but be aware that, if Anya isn’t back on the job come Monday, secret police or not, you’ll face me.”

“Lovely threat, comrade Oleanova. Come at me.” He replied, and with that, the three left, wishing Anya their well wishes, even though the girl couldn’t hear it, their steps echoing in the palace’s floor as they went away.

The nurse approached Dimitri, _something something_ about emotional distress, not sure when she’d wake up, just to hope the fever would go down. She then dismissed herself, and Dimitri - one, two, three steps - touched her shoulder.

“Lena.” Dimitri said, but her eyes were glued to Anastasia. “Lena, praying will do her no good. We must go. Work continues.”

“You’ll have to pry my dead body from here, then.” She all but growled, and Dimitri sighed. “Do not ask me to leave her bedside, Dimitri. I cannot possibly work, not with Anya weighing in my mind. I fear…”

“Yes, I know.” He looked at Anastasia, and Yelena took out a stray strand of Anastasia’s hair from her face, the scar in her forehead showing clear. “I’ll stay, because she is important.”

“Important to us, or important to the soviets?” Yelena asked, bitter, but Dimitri did not give her an answer.


	3. Chapter Two: the Neva flows

Yelena was awakened by the sound of the window being opened, and with a jump, she looked up, noticing Anastasia was looking out, into the Neva. Its waters were raging, furious, but somehow, not loud. A quiet fury, the surface revealing the truth of its depths - it would drag people down, drowning and freezing whoever fell into it. Anastasia, who observed it, seemed much the same, as if the Neva reflected her anger: not a river, but a mirror.

“Anya?” She called, voice groggy with sleep, looking around. It was dark, inside and out, only the moon illuminating them. Anastasia looked like a ghost, and a shiver passed through her spine.In a way, she was one.

“Hi. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up, Yelena.” The Neva outside was heavy, she noticed; rising (and noticing Dimitri had disappeared somewhere, as usual), she joined Anastasia, looking outside. “The room was a bit stuffy.”

“I see.” Yelena replied, and looked at Anastasia, whose blue-grey eyes looked back. “You worried all of us, today. Are you alright?”

“Yes, it’s just…” She stopped, biting her lower lip. “Today. I heard that truck backfiring - and while I knew it was a truck, I saw something else.”

What Anastasia was about to say veered into dangerous territory, Yelena knew. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Something _else_?” Yelena asked, dread settling in cold in her stomach.

Anastasia, unaware of Yelena’s feelings, struggled to remember something.

“A gun, I think, and by my side there was someone, and we… I don’t know, I don’t _know_!” She was frustrated, hands going through her hair, as if trying to stimulate herself to remember what she couldn’t. “But I know it was important. I know that, whoever that was with me that night, was someone who cared for me, and I wonder if they are looking for me. What if they are, Lena?”

The person (persons) Anastasia was talking about - eyes filled with hope, child-like and innocent - was dead. Her family were all skeletons.

“Anya, I hate to tell you this, but they left you to die in the side of a road. If someone was with you, that night, I didn’t see them there.” She lied through her teeth, and Anastasia deflated. Automatically, barely thinking, she put Anastasia’s hands on her own. “I know you want to know more about the past you don’t remember, Anya, but it’ll only bring you pain.”

Anya looked out, and Yelena felt cruel, like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse instead of ending its suffering.

“Is this because…” Yelena started, knowing she would end up regretting the words that would come out of her mouth. “Is it because of the girl in Berlin?”

“The impostor, you mean?” Anastasia corrected, so sure, and yet. She paused, thinking for a moment, and nodded. “Yes. If only I could talk with… I don’t know, maybe Anastasia has an aunt or an uncle or something… But if I could talk with them…”

This was her cue, wasn’t it? This was were Yelena should play puppet master, slowly inch Anastasia close to the realization she could go to Berlin, speak with Olga and Xenia Alexandrovna, and notice that the real Anastasia was herself.

“You can. You’d have to flee this country, but…” Yelena said, the words spilling out of her mouth as she saw fire coming back to Anastasia’s eyes. “But you can, most definitely, go to Berlin.”

She would - Yelena knew this, truth soaring and rising in her heart. Anastasia would leave to Berlin, never to come back, and Yelena would stay in Leningrad, alone and brokenhearted. Her eyes diverted to the Neva outside, peaceful in the moonlight.

“ _We_ can go.” Anastasia said, and Yelena’s eyes whipped to her, staring incredulous. “I never thought about leaving either you or Russia, but I most definitely can leave Russia with you.”

She was blushing - it was bright, even in the pale shades of the moon, and Yelena could feel the warmth in her cheeks as well. She gripped Anastasia’s hands harder.

“Are you sure you want me with you? I don’t know german, and I’m not literate, and honestly, I’ll probably drag you more than help.” Yelena said, the words spilling out of her mouth, but Anastasia smiled, approaching a step closer, fingers interlacing.

“As I said, I won’t leave Russia if it’s not with you. Besides, aren’t you curious about the outside world?” Anastasia asked, dragging the two away from the Neva, which, probably, was a good idea. They were deep inside the secret police, after all; talking about defecting the Union while inside its intelligence wasn’t the smartest choice. “I think there must be more to the world than Leningrad and Yekaterinburg, and if telling some people they are being misled is the way, isn’t it worth it?”

 _Sverdlovsk_ , Yelena wanted to correct her, but it didn’t matter. The way she spoke of a world outside the borders of the Union was so sure and full of herself.

Yelena wouldn’t know, but she, for a moment, could almost believe it. All she knew from the outside were from Dimitri’s letters from the front, telling her of a surreal world of pain and the smell of death. Could the world outside of the safety of the Union be a good place, if at all? They were closed for a reason.

“And how do you know, Anya?” Yelena pointed out, as they left the headquarters, dragging themselves through the light summer snow. Was there summer snow, in other places? “How do you know there is a good world outside?”

“I just do. It’s like a memory of a faraway dream, that’s all.” Anastasia replied, and honestly, it made sense. The daughter of the Czar would think the world was a good, nice place, warm and comforting. Yelena wasn’t so sure. “And besides, even if it’s bad, we’ll be together, so it can’t be _that_ bad.”

Yelena smiled a little, and Anastasia stopped in her tracks, pulling Yelena into her arms.

“So, will you come with me?” Anastasia asked, hands on her waist, and Yelena sighed.

“If you so insist, Anya, who am I to say no?” Yelena replied, and Anastasia, smiling bright like the sun, eyes blue gray lit up, took one of her hands on her own, dancing to an invisible tune. “Hey!”

“Let’s celebrate, for once, something, Yelena!” Anastasia laughed, dancing to some cheery invisible tune only she heard, but if she closed her eyes, Yelena was almost - _almost_ , faint like the memories Anastasia had - sure she could hear it, too.

* * *

“So, let me see if I understand it right, Lena.” Dimitri started, as Yelena started to finish what she hadn’t, the day before. “You made very dangerous plans to flee this marvelous country, and you accepted Anya’s marriage proposal and honeymoon combo. Do I send a gift? Would food be appropriate?”

Yelena blushed, gripping her rag tighter as she cleaned his half-clean office. She would have to work more, to compensate for yesterday, but it was worth it.

“Excuse me, Dimitri, but I’m afraid I didn’t hear it right. Marriage?” Yelena asked, combing through her memories of last night. Anastasia couldn’t, possibly, have proposed marriage. Yelena would have noticed.

“Oh, yes. In my books, at least, a _‘I never imagined leaving you_ ’ is a love confession, and a ‘ _let’s leave this rotten city behind and see the world_ ’ is a marriage proposal.” Dimitri replied, cheerful, and Yelena, with mounting embarrassment, realized he was right. In any other situation, someone would interpret it as a marriage proposal, wouldn’t it? 

“What should I do?” she asked, and Dimitri shrugged, arranging the papers in his hands.

“Well, leave everything to me. You did your part of convincing her to go to Olga. Good job, comrade. Your nation is proud.” He replied, eyes back to his papers, and shame fell in Yelena. She had played her role, hadn’t she? And she regretted it, in part, because she knew how it would end.

Anastasia would be found as the real deal by Olga Alexandrovna. Yelena would have no place in polite society, and she’d be scorned out. She’d be brokenhearted and alone, and Anastasia would be happy and with family. There would be no happy ending for them.

But still… Anastasia would be happy, wouldn’t she?

With a soft sigh, she turned her back to Dimitri, going back to cleaning.

* * *

Yelena stared at Anastasia out of the corner of her eye, as she chirped the story of today’s Leningrad.

“... And then Anzhela accidentally fell into the truck and was taken away, and I’m not sure she’ll return.” Anastasia ended, her soup of a leather belt falling from her spoon.

Dimitri, meanwhile shrugged. At least he had had the courtesy of bringing in a new belt for their soup.

“I’ll check the cells. Anya, Yelena has told me you plan leaving this wonderful, proud country?” He said, and Anya froze in place, smiling in terror. Yelena kept eating her soup, quiet. She already knew Dimitri was on-board with it.

“Maybe? I mean, no?” Anastasia replied, and Dimitri snorted.

“Well, then I assume you don’t want these train tickets I got to Hrodna, then.” He put in three train tickets, shiny and official looking, written in letters she could recognize but not read fully. “A shame, really. It was quite the predicament to get them, too.”

Anastasia looked at Yelena, surprise clear in her pretty face, to Dimitri, and then to Yelena.

“You got it for us?” She asked, putting her hand on top of Yelena’s, and Yelena nodded. “It is the nicest thing someone has ever done for me. Thank you, Yelena.”

Dimitri coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “married couple”, and Anastasia cleared her throat.

“A-Anyway! Thank you as well, Dimitri.” She grabbed the tickets, quiet reverence in her touch. “But why three?”

“My superiors assigned me a mission, and the two of you are my cover story.” He replied, smiling prettily. Were she any other woman, she would be dazzled. “We will be a pair of siblings, Lena, and Anya dear here is a cousin of ours, and all of us are escaping this wretched hellhole. Of course, this is the cover story to our cover story.”

The fact their cover story had its _own_ cover story did not fare well for Yelena, but she kept listening instead of speaking.

“The real reason for our trip is that I will try to get some funding for the Monarchist Union of Central Russia.”

Anastasia rose an eyebrow at that, and so did Yelena. Why would Dimitri, a communist through and through, be gathering funds for something that defended the monarchy? Especially so when he worked for the secret police?

“It’s a sting operation, isn’t it?” Anastasia asked, dry, and Dimitri smiled. Any smiled with him, and her smile was truly, madly, dazzling. “You guys are taking monarchist funds to fund yourselves.”

“I cannot believe we are wasting such _genius_ cleaning the streets.” Dimitri sighed, and used his spoon to point at Anastasia, who glowed under his compliment. “That’s exactly what we are doing, Anya dear. Getting funds for the secret police for me, and for you, talking with the aunts of one Anastasia Romanov. As for Yelena...”

“She’ll be with me.” Anastasia replied, looking to Yelena, who nodded, eating her soup, smiling a little. “And then, we’ll… Uh…”

“You’ll be sleeper agents in whatever place you decide to settle in. May involve some being watched, may involve some letters with new information from whatever Russian expat community you two end up with. Who knows?” Dimitri shrugged, and the three ate their soup in silence for a moment, before something in the conversation before caught up to her. Yelena picked up the tickets from the table, recognizing their seal: they were _train_ tickets.

“Must it be trains?” She moaned, and Dimitri and Anastasia laughed. “I’m serious! Me and trains do not mix well!”

“It is the cheapest option, other than swimming all the way to Berlin. Or walking, but walking might leave you with a few more bullet holes than what someone would like.” Dimitri replied, and Yelena bit her lower lip. She had sworn (to herself, sure) that she’d never use a train again, and yet…

And yet Anastasia changed up her life once more, taking her up by the roots and replanting her somewhere else.

The world was a big place, according to Anastasia; maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Yelena would have a chance to know, now.

And, as she looked at Anastasia, who chirped on and on about things she wanted to see, perhaps, if her cards were played right, if Anastasia remained Anya, she could see it with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe this is short but they'll get big again


	4. Chapter Three: learn to do it

The train trip to Hrodna took two days, and Anastasia seemed so in love with the places outside her window, it made hard for Yelena not to smile. The places she saw - Anastasia insisted on pointing out every city and village, every cow and pasture and war-torn field. Yelena so wanted to stop on every train station to explore the towns, but Dimitri wouldn’t let her.

Well, the fact her stomach was queasy didn’t help matters, too. But if she could...

Leaving Leningrad had been… Easier than Yelena had thought. She had just packed her clothes - the few she had, actually - inside the bags she had used so many years before, to leave Yekaterinburg ( _Sverdlovsk_ , Yelena corrected herself, forcing herself to use the unfamiliar name to her hometown. It would always be Yekaterinburg to her, though), and her clothes seemed even less than before, to the point they had free space in their bags, now.

And, well, Yelena had also brought something she _should_ have left behind. The little pearl and diamond she had never sold, out of the five or six she had found, feeling it was important somehow, and the little Anastasia card she had gotten so many years ago, and given to Dimitri to carry with him, during the war, as a good luck charm.

He had given it back to her, but she had never looked at it, not until Yelena broke the lock and got herself the little card, old, faded by time and sweat, but still recognizable, its colours somehow brilliant, even if the card was almost two decades old and had been through hell and back with Yelena and Dimitri. Yelena, however, was too sick to keep a good eye on the card, so she stuck it in the bottom of her pile of clothes, and Dimitri...

Dimitri, meanwhile, had disappeared through the thin hallways of the train, and sometimes - when the train stopped in cities she had never heard about, Anastasia taking small walks to soothe Yelena’s stomach -, she was almost sure she could hear him speak or laugh. It was like a ghost of a friend, a shadow of a cloud in the ground, and Yelena couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be like that in Berlin as well, just a background noise in the radiation of their lives.

But then, after each stop would come and go, Dimitri - clothes messy, a stupid laugh in his eyes, hair untamed and wild like the night - would appear, books under his arm. Yelena didn’t know where he found those, especially since their content would have been… Well, forbidden.

“Where did you get those? I feel like it’s been years since I’ve seen a book!” Anastasia had said, the first time he had come with them, and picked them up. Yelena couldn’t recognize many letters, but she sure could recognize _Romanov_. Anastasia, unaware of what Yelena was thinking, picked up the book, rifling through it. “Oh wow, I’d love to say this brings memories, but it brings up _nothing_ at all!”

“Well, I figured that since you will talk with some old royalty, you’d have to know something about it, right? So I betted some things, lost another, but got this set of books for you.” He smiled, and Yelena felt useless. She could never get these for Anastasia, because it wasn’t like she knew what they’d say.

She should really pick up reading and writing any of these days.

“Was your dignity part of it?” Yelena asked, faking cheerfulness, and Dimitri smiled. She knew that smile - it was the same he sported for a week after he disappeared for an hour with Sergei in the forest. Sergei had died in the war, but Dimitri had tried - and failed - to save him, if memory served her right. “You know what, Dimitri? I don’t want to know. I really don’t.”

“Anyway, as I was saying… Me and Lena here will teach you how to be a Russian girl, since you don’t. Let’s start with something simple, yes?” Dimitri said, but Anastasia was busy going through the book. Yelena cleared her throat, and Anastasia’s blue-grey eyes rose, seemingly embarrassed. “Something _simple_ , yes?”

“Sure. Simple. I can do simple.” Anastasia muttered, hands still in her book. Dimitri smiled and gestured to the door. “Is there something to do outside?”

“Well, I figured I should teach you good manners and all that it entails. Did you know that this train has a _restaurant_ carriage?” He asked, making up some fake accent in the last two words. Anastasia offered a small giggle, rising, and Yelena rose as well as he opened the door, guiding them through the hallways, Anastasia putting her hand in Yelena’s, fingers interlacing as Yelena tried not to peek inside the other carriages, windows with either curtain drawn or with door opens, the sound of laughing men coming from each door like a nightmare.

It reminded Yelena, vaguely, of the soldiers she had served during her time in the House. They all had laughed like that, rambunctious like the entire thing was a big joke, like they weren’t making people prisoners. Well, Yelena rationalized, at the time, she also didn’t think they were prisoners; they were just people she had to spy on, and who couldn’t leave the House.

Wait, that made them prisoners.

Shaking her head, she arrived in the restaurant carriage, a golden and red monstrosity of times long past, and even Anastasia stopped in her tracks. Dimitri stared, smiling softly, and Yelena glared at him.

There was no way this was out of the goodness in his heart.

“Forgive the luxury, but we are re-using the Imperial Train, so it ends up looking like that occasionally.” Dimitri said cheerfully, as Anastasia looked carefully around, analyzing every centimeter around her. “Still, what would you girls like for dinner? We have soup, but I assume you want something different.”

“Yes, something… Different.” Anastasia said, sitting down, eyes looking to the table. She seemed shaken, and Yelena made plans to yell at Dimitri later. “Fish?”

“We have fish, Anya dear.” Dimitri replied, and looked at Yelena, who glared at him. “Fish for three, then. Excuse me, comrades.”

With that, he was gone, and Yelena slipped in the seat in front of Anastasia, the girl’s eyes more grey than blue, at the moment. She grasped Anastasia’s hands, and the girl looked at her, empty like -

Like that first day, back in - back in Sverdlovsk. Yes, that was its name, now. It was only right Yelena used it.

“Anya.” She called, and Anastasia looked at her. “Are you alright?”

Anastasia seemed empty, a doll whose stuffing was falling out, broken.

“I have a feeling…” She started, and lowered her voice when the sound of men’s laughter roared through the carriage. “I have been here before, I think. Once upon a time…”

“It can’t be, Anya.” Yelena replied, and Anastasia stared at her, the old fury back, for a flickering second. “This is the imperial train, as Dimitri said. You… You don’t look like… Well, royalty. Besides, if you were…”

“I’d be dead, yes. I know.” Anastasia, the last Grand Duchess of Russia who was _very_ much alive, replied. She then perked up, smiling brightly like the sun. “But maybe I was a servant, or something! Who knows?”

Yelena, shoulders relaxing slightly, smiled. If Anastasia could believe the reason she had been inside the imperial train before because she served there, not because she was an imperial duchess, then it was all good and dandy. Besides, what girl wanted to be a Grand Duchess, in these times? It wasn’t worth it anymore.

“Who knows?” Yelena agreed, smiling, and Dimitri appeared, carrying three plates in his arm, the smell of fresh fish cooked with seasonings making her nose itch. It was new and exciting, and as Dimitri sat by Yelena’s side, he put in several forks and knives. They all looked the same to Yelena, honestly.

“Alright, here you go. Dinner is carp, stuffed with buckwheat and mushrooms. Enjoy.” He said, and Yelena picked up the fork and knife, unsure how to proceed for a moment, before carefully watching as Anastasia, ever naturally, picked a fork and a knife, cutting her fish carefully, cutting her meal into bite-sized pieces in an elegant, refined manner. Dimitri smiled at that, starting to eat himself, and Yelena was left alone to struggle.

It wasn’t that she had never used a fork and a knife; it was more like she was… Just out of practice. That was what eating soup almost every day did to you, she thought, watching Anastasia quietly, how she seemed to change forks seamlessly for each part of the food, and how Dimitri smirked at that.

* * *

Anastasia never noticed how she ate like a perfect little fairytale royal girl, and when they went back to their little room - Dimitri said he would stay in another, to preserve their purity or some other ancient concept no one grasped anymore -, he crammed them to the brim with royalist information. There was count Yusupov and there was the Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna and there was Princess Irina and _don’t forget about_ so many people Yelena could feel her sanity slipping out.

And yet, Anastasia seemed at home in all that knowledge, chirping off information that made her smile, like it was confirmation she was a servant that knew the royals. Yelena didn’t know much, but she knew there was no way this could end up well.

“Oh!” Anastasia said, a smile as bright as the moon outside, as they approached Kiev, almost sure of who she was for the first time in years. Dimitri had left to go somewhere, and Yelena really wished he appeared to take the books out of her hands, because as it stood, Yelena did not have this courage. “Maybe I was close to the royal family? Maybe that’s why I was… Well, in that sorry state?”

“Perhaps, but maybe we should sleep?” Yelena suggested, eyeing the bed, and Anastasia pouted, the book in her hands not even halfway through. Where did Dimitri even get that _thing_ , honestly? Anastasia pouted. “Please?”

“Fine, but first light I read this book.” Anastasia replied, closing the book carefully, and slipping under the covers with Yelena. Yelena pressed herself against the wall, the familiar warmth of Anastasia against her back as the girl nudged closer. Yelena knew that there two beds in their room, but the habit was too hard to break. Besides, this might be one of the last chances of having Anastasia as her bed companion. She’d miss it, when Anastasia was a Grand Duchess again, her body against Yelena’s -

With a blush blooming in her cheeks, Yelena noticed what she had been thinking, and buried her face into the pillow, hopeful she wouldn’t wake up tomorrow.

* * *

“You two know there is two beds, right?” Dimitri asked, over the screeching of the train braking, reeking of alcohol and smoke. Yelena, groggily, rose from her spot on the bed, as Anastasia mumbled something that definitely wasn’t Russian. Dimitri, meanwhile, seemed smug and just the tiniest bit drunk, which made Yelena wonder why _she_ wasn’t, too. “I mean, I get why you shared beds during your stay in good old Leningrad, but now?”

“She’s warm, and it’s _nice_ , Dimitri.” Anastasia replied, eyes closed as she hugged Yelena’s waist, burying her face in Yelena’s stomach.

“Is she, now?” Dimitri drawled, humming contently to himself as he went to open the windows, the warm air unusual and uncomfortable. Leningrad, at its warmest during this time of the year, seemed cooler, in comparison.

“Yeah, and I bet you must know, smelling like that. Had a good night, didn’t you? Was the bed of any other soldier good?” She grumbled, making Yelena blush with the implication. Dimitri blinked, surprised for a moment, and the world held itself still, even the sound of the train breaking ceasing.

“Anya!” She hissed, as Dimitri roared in laughter, like he used to do with Sergei. It was like a glimpse into the past, one that had changed with the war.

Still. It was none of her business, was it? A little laughter bubbled out of Yelena, and then, Dimitri straightened himself out, smiling softly, staring at a now fully awake, smirking Anastasia, who was still glued to Yelena’s waist.

“Anyway, as I was planning to say before, we have arrived in glorious Hrodna. Get dressed, sister and cousin dears, for we have a small trip to make. Have you ever seen the forests of Poland?” Dimitri said, and his smile told Yelena this was no small venture.

 

* * *

“... Dimitri, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I don’t know how to ride a horse.” Yelena said, frowning, as she stared at the conveniently left behind horses, two hours into their casual trek through the forest. It seemed eerily similar to the forest of Sverdlovsk, and Yelena was sure Anastasia thought the same, with the vague, distant way she looked around, with the way she jumped at every sound the forest made.

Dimitri, meanwhile petted the horses as if they were dogs. Their sheer size terrified Yelena, although Anastasia seemed fascinated by the creatures. Yelena honestly didn’t understand their appeal. Her family wasn’t able to afford a horse - they ate the grass the cows ate, and their oxen cart was more important than a horse -, and as such, she never learned.

That, and that one of Dimitri’s younger brothers had died after falling off their family horse. That had scared Yelena out of liking horses, but it was in the past.

Dimitri seemed comfortable with the creature, and Yelena avoided looking at it.

“Oh, it’s rather easy to pick up, don’t worry.” Dimitri replied, not seeming worried about it, as he offered a quick look to Anastasia. “Do you want to try first, Anya?”

“Absolutely!” She replied, taking off the bag she carried and throwing it on the ground, forgetting about everything but the horse. Dimitri moved to offer to help her into the horse he was petting, but she made a beeline for the white horse, enchanted by it.

There was a joke about fairy tales and knights, but Yelena was too busy, sweating as Anastasia mounted the horse as if she was born on its back, holding the reins and looking like royalty.

“Hey, this is simpler than expected!” Anastasia chirped, commanding the horse around, careful.

“Oh, Anya dear, you’re just a natural.” Dimitri left his horse, bleak and brown, and picked up the bag Anastasia had thrown on the ground, giving it to her when she approached on top of her horse. He turned to Yelena, who gave a step back. “Your turn, Lena.”

“No way!” She said, shaking her head, and Dimitri stared. Anastasia, meanwhile, huffed, walking her horse around slowly, seemingly getting a feel for it, and her frown grew.

Dimitri approached, the smile he wore in the halls of the secret police present in his face once more. Yelena clenched her teeth.

“It is a sixteen hour walk, Lena. The horse cuts that time in half. Now, go up, before I have to explain to Anya dear why is she so good and natural at horse riding, please.” He said, as Anastasia made the horse go in circles. Yelena gulped, throat dry, and went to the horse everyone ignored, a sad little grey thing. It stared at Yelena with its eyes, and Yelena took a deep breath, before Dimitri - quiet as a shadow, even in the noisy forest floor - helped her up.

It was… Way too high for comfort, Yelena decided, barely hearing Dimitri roll of a laundry list of instructions for it. All she caught was how to make the horse move and stop, but, with the reins in her hands, Yelena wasn’t sure if it could stop.

Dimitri, not noticing she had heard only half, smiled - he had noticed, the bastard - and went for the horse he had been petting before. Offering a quiet look to Anastasia, who seemed ready to take off in her horse, Yelena squared her shoulders and pressed the horse’s sides with her ankles lightly, the animal starting to move.

It was… Odd. Yelena knew that she would never, ever ride a horse again, but then, she had also said she would never ride a train again.

“Alright, ready, girls?” Dimitri called, atop of his horse like he belonged; it seemed only Yelena felt out of place.

Anastasia grinned, and with a small whistle, whipped off on her horse, riding fast in the direction Dimitri had been guiding them, a white blur that left laughter in her trail. Dimitri, looking in the direction Anastasia had rode off into, laughed and went after her, horse as fast as he could.

Yelena wondered if she shouldn’t, perhaps, ride back to the Soviet Union, but rode forward instead. Slower than the two, but she went after them.

* * *

The trip lasted eight hours, and Yelena could only caught up with Anastasia when the girl deigned herself, riding like an expert, like she had been born in the back of a horse and never left.

After eight hours, the sun setting in front, Dimitri made them stop in a farm. It seemed dilapidated and badly run, but he stopped, getting off his horse, and tying its reins in a half-rotted wooden stop.

“Where are we?” Anastasia asked, getting off her horse, and Yelena approached slowly, unsure how she was supposed to get off. It was a high place to be, too high for her tastes.

Honestly, she’d never understand how people rode those animals.

“Contact point.” Dimitri said, cryptic, and a man - he could be a grandfather on the Urals, crazed and wild-eyed, holding to his gun like it might save him. Dimitri, in his turn smiled to the man. “Comrade Molokov, how are you?”

“Bad as always, comrade. I assume you must be the new man sent to gather funds?” He spoke with dripping sarcasm, slow and melancholic as he eyed Yelena and Anastasia like they were pieces of cured meat. Anastasia, noticing Yelena, approached, offering her a hand to get her off her high horse. “Also, these new soldiers look like very convincing peasants. Which village where they stolen from?”

Dimitri laughed as Yelena jumped into Anastasia’s arms, the glare and fury in the girl’s eyes palpable, even if Yelena couldn’t see them. Still, Anastasia’s arms were warm and nice, even when the girl was awake. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stay where she was; and as such, she turned to face the man as well. She had no idea who he was.

“Somewhere in Siberia, comrade.” Dimitri replied, and the man, looking at Anastasia for a moment too long, shrugged, taking from his pocket a bag full of coins. Dimitri accepted it graciously, a small pile of folded papers following. “Why, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, comrade. Now, get off my property.” And, with a last, final look at Anastasia, he left. Anastasia stuck her tongue out to his back, and as they moved towards the trail, the man’s voice rang through the clearing. “And, by the way, blondie, interesting scar. Familiar, almost.”

Anastasia put her hand on her scar, frowning a little, and the man went back inside, chuckling to himself.

“Familiar?” Anastasia asked, to the wind, and Dimitri smiled as Yelena fell herself fall frozen. “How can it be?”

“I’m not sure.” Yelena croaked, and Anastasia sent her an odd look, before letting her hand drop, grabbing Yelena’s hand herself and forcing her to move.

“Comrade Molokov worked at the Palace, if I’m not mistaken. An old guard, who changed sides after… Mmh, perhaps after the 1905 revolution?” Dimitri mused, and Anastasia’s frown grew deeper.

“Did he ever say why?” Anastasia asked, not looking at either of them, looking forward with eyes that were more gray than blue.

“Something about the imperial couple.” Dimitri replied, simple, and Yelena elbowed him. Dimitri did not seem to notice. “Comrade Molokov didn’t like the way they handled the kids, not after he had to save one from a tree, I think.”

“She fell.” Anastasia said, stopping in her tracks, and turned to Dimitri, even though her blue-grey eyes were not truly seeing him. “She went too high, and even though her father told her not to...”

“She did anyway. A reckless child, if you ask me.” Dimitri said, a sly smile playing in his lips, and Anastasia fell to her knees, as if she were the child that had fallen. Yelena dropping her bags in the ground to go to her side. She seemed empty, like a doll with no stuffing, and Yelena grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.

Dimitri, the bastard, whistled, keeping his walk as the two kneeled on the dirt. The smell of the forest covered them, thick as a blanket in a winter night.

“Who am I?” Anastasia asked, and Yelena took a deep breath. No, not right now. Anywhere but in the forest of an unknown land. “Yelena, I think… I think I might...”

“I don’t know who you are,” She lied through her teeth, but they were so close. If only Anastasia would trust her a few days more, then she could be with her family, instead of being with Yelena and Dimitri. “But I know you’re Anya, right now. Who cares about the past, Czars and revolutions? You’re you, and we’ll figure out the rest as we go along. Okay?”

“Okay.” Anastasia replied, and hugged Yelena for a moment, before rising, adjusting her bag. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Yelena replied, rising as well, grabbing her bag from where she had thrown it, and going after Dimitri.


	5. Chapter Four: Berlin holds the key to your mind

The trip to Berlin was pleasant - as much as it could be in a train, but, honestly, it beat walking the entire way there. Or the horse, actually. And Yelena, seemingly, was getting better at dealing with it. She had only gotten sick three times!

Anastasia, meanwhile, threw herself in books, and _Dimitri_ helped her even _more_. He told her a million and one facts about the Romanovs, like the uncle with a yellow cat and the aunt who wandered in the Volga. Dimitri, ever helpful, even showed her photographs - though they seemed odd, like someone had taken them away, from a distance. Spying stuff, Yelena politely guessed, and said nothing as she looked over the photos of Xenia and Olga Alexandrovna, Anastasia having abandoned them after a mere look.

Arriving in Berlin made Anastasia stop her frantic research. No, correction - it made her _stop_. Yelena, too, stopped watching Anastasia.

Berlin was a glittering city, a jewel in Europe, even after the war - mostly _because_ of the war -, blinding with its scenario, like no war had ever gone through it, like nothing had ever happened. Yelena couldn’t stop looking in all directions, feeling like the country bumpkin she was, as they traveled through the city to reach the Russian district of Charlottenburg.

It looked a bit like Leningrad, but it should be obvious why - it was a district made for and by rich Russians who had fled the revolution of the people, of course it would be like Leningrad -, and Anastasia, seemingly, was the one who could notice it the most.

Dimitri, apparently, noticed the way Anastasia looked around, as if recognizing it without truly seeing what was in front of her. He dumped them on a little hotel as soon as possible, muttering something about Olga Alexandrovna and funds or something or another before leaving to who knows where.

Anastasia lasted, perhaps, a whole thirty seconds in the room - whose window gave view to a grey building wall, only the barest hint of light coming in through it -, before turning to Yelena.

“Shall we go out and explore?” She asked, putting her hands on her hips, and it was a terrible, tempting idea.

Charlottenburg looked lovely, but it was a neighborhood whose entire population was, in its essence, exiled Russian royals. If any of them had been close enough to the Czar, they could, in theory, recognize Anastasia for who she was, and ruin the Soviet’s plan.

In theory. In reality, what was the chance they’d cross paths with anyone who could recognize Anastasia instantly? Besides, it had been eight or more years since anyone had seen her up close. What could happen?

“Sure.” Yelena replied and smiled a little. “But how about we put on some clean clothes, first? We _did_ just spend a day or two in these, and we also traveled in them.”

Anastasia blinked, surprise showing in her face for a moment, and Yelena laughed, for what felt like the first time in years, as the girl blushed.

* * *

“Come on, that _was_ pretty!” Anastasia said, poking Yelena on the ribs, as they window-shopped through the Russian district. The concept was distracting, truth be told; Yelena had never seen so many things in windows, for sale, new and shiny. Everything seemed old and faded, back home, and here, all items were pretty.

Anastasia, meanwhile, seemed unfazed, like the entire concept wasn’t a novelty to her. It wasn’t, but it wasn’t like she knew, right? Yelena smiled, bringing the girl closer to her, shoulders rubbing.

“It was, but Dimitri gave us just enough to buy food for a day or two, Anya.” She replied, closing her eyes for a moment. “We can’t just buy everything we see because it’s pretty.”

“We’re not in Leningrad, though. We can _buy_ things.” Anastasia pointed out, scowling, and Yelena giggled. “Come on, a snow globe won’t set us in a dire financial crisis. We just have to eat cheaply!”

“As if you know cheap restaurants around here, Anya.” Yelena huffed, but turned to go back to the shop. Anastasia smiled like a child, grabbing Yelena’s arm and pulling her along. They went to enter the shop, but they accidentally hit someone - a familiar-looking woman, older, dark hair and dark eyes, dressed in clothes fancier and warmer than their own. She stared not at Yelena, who had bumped into her, but at Anastasia, who stared back. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we...”

No, wait. She recognized that woman. But from where…?

“Anastasia?” The woman asked, and _oh_. It was Olga Alexandrovna - of course the woman looked familiar. She was the Czar’s sister. Yelena could now see her, in the photographs Dimitri had shown them.

Anastasia, meanwhile, frowned, something passing through her eyes as she gave a step back.

“I know you.” She said, and Yelena was  _ruined_. Olga made a motion to touch Anastasia, but Anastasia - grip firm on Yelena’s arm - forced the two to run in the opposite direction, shops passing by them in a blur of color.

They only stopped running when they arrived in their little room, and Anastasia locked the door as Yelena tried to get her breath, throwing herself in bed as she watched Anastasia, fingers trembling, man the locks.

“Anya.” She called, sitting in bed, and Anastasia looked at her. “Are you alright?”

“Distract me.” Anastasia all but ordered, abandoning the locks to sit by Yelena’s side, hands going for Yelena’s. “Tell me something about you, Yelena. Anything.”

“Anything?” Yelena asked, tentatively, and Anastasia nodded. “Well…”

She had no stories; what could a childhood, spent as a poor girl, offer her in terms of entertainment? There was the lake, the forest, the gossip of old Sverdlovsk, but would Anastasia enjoy it?

Well, there was always the card, but… But one look into Anastasia’s face told her that, if she recognized the card, there would be some problems, but what was the chance she recognized the card?

Biting her lower lip, Yelena threw her hands, metaphorically, into the air, and went to grab the card. The little diamond and pearl still where there as well, and she stuck them into her pocket.

She turned back to Anastasia, and sat by her side, taking a deep breath. The little card and the precious stones burned her hand.

“Well, when I was around six…” She started, letting the memories fill her head.

* * *

Yelena was six, and her two sisters - Alexandra and Klavdiya, two and three years old - were a _bore_. She had been playing near the lake, officially ditching her duties because her sisters were sick and her parents didn’t want to spend more money than necessary on the cures. She had been spending the nights on Dimitri’s house, and her parents had, for a mere discussion, considered sending her to family in Kazan, but the sheer idea of the cost of sending a little girl to a trip through the plains had told it off. So, she stayed in Dimitri’s house, until her sisters felt better.

But it was all so boring - she used to help her mother with the home duties, but with the threat of sickness looming over her head, there was nothing to do. She was relegated to rock-skipping, feeling herself dying of boredom.

The trees rustled, and she looked back, seeing Dimitri and Sergei approaching. They were older than her, at ten, but still found time to play with her.

And today, she noticed, letting the rock she held go, they seemed ecstatic.

“Lena, Lena, you won’t believe it!” Dimitri said, forest green eyes shining bright like the sun, and Sergei, holding something in his arms, nodded, his wild blond hair even wilder, skin shining with sweat. “A merchant has come through!”

A merchant? Now that was some interesting stuff. A person who traveled from place to place, seeing cities far and near, the entire world so close to him. A man filled with stories, she was sure. Yelena perked up, going near them, and Dimitri produced, from his pocket a chocolate box. It seemed a little beaten, the package scratched and the words in it ineligible, but edible nonetheless.

“You guys stole it?” She asked, and they grinned. She knew these were expensive, and analyzing the one Dimitri gave her just made that suspicion more certain.

“No, but the merchant got the carriage stuck on some mud, and we helped him out. He gave us those, but…” Sergei started, sitting down on the forest ground, and Dimitri followed soon. Yelena sat, and he gave her the box. It was dented and half-open, now that she looked into it. She never had chocolate, but her mother’s stories once in a while told about it.

“I think he was just using us to get rid of this, since it’s not really sellable to the rich folks.” Dimitri continued, and gestured to the box. “But hey, ladies first. Open it up, I wanna see.”

“I’ve heard there’s a card in each one,” Sergei said, excitedly, as Yelena fidgeted with the box for a moment, before revealing two more or less straight lines of fancy wrapping, shining in colours she had never seen before. Dimitri and Sergei peered in, and sounds of awe came in from their mouths as Sergei, ever bold, took one out. “I hope it’s a pretty girl.”

“Not wanting the Czar is as unpatriotic as it comes, Sergei.” Dimitri said, picking one for himself, revealing a smidge of color - green, pretty and unseen - that made Yelena grab a chocolate as well. Yelena, giggling with Dimitri’s commentary, picked one for herself, as well.

She undid the wrapper, and plopped it right into her mouth, the candy melting into her mouth and coating her tongue - the taste was better than she could have expected, and Yelena could barely think as the three, in synchrony, just mindlessly crammed chocolates inside their mouths.

When they were done - barely five minutes later, Yelena sure this amount of sweetness would later make her sick -, the only thing left behind was a card.

It was pretty, she supposed - it depicted a little girl, dressed in soft green and with gold jewelry, a pleasant enough smile on her face, blonde hair long and pretty.

“Who is she?” Yelena asked, picking up the card. Unfamiliar letters stood at the bottom, but Yelena was illiterate as they came. Sergei and Dimitri peered at the card, each on her side, but Yelena’s dark eyes couldn’t leave the little card. “She’s pretty.”

“I’ve seen prettier.” Snorted Sergei, and Dimitri seemed to not care. “I mean, for example, Masha. You know Masha.”

Masha was the older girl from school; in the rare occasions Yelena went, Masha was always with a bunch of girls around her, flirting with boys her age. Sergei was between them, and Dimitri too, even if Dimitri never reciprocated it. Yelena had something of a little love for her, but she found her too dull. Something never fully clicked, not like it clicked with the girl in this card.

“Masha’s remarkably average, dumbass.” Dimitri took the card from Yelena, and he stared at the little girl painted in it, Yelena protesting for a moment. “I can’t read whatever is written here, but the teacher can, probably. How about we go to her?”

Sergei and Yelena looked at each other, and they nodded, Yelena taking the card away from Dimitri as they went to the local teacher.

She was an underworked woman - could only teach either the rich or those who were wealthy enough to not need as many hands in their farms -, and as such, they weren’t surprised to find the woman doing nothing other than reading.

“Professor Lagunova, can you help us?” Dimitri asked, and the woman looked up. She had been in her classroom once or twice, maybe, and it had been enough to learn some letters. Few, but some.

The professor closed her book, smiling sweetly, and Yelena cradled the card closer to her chest.

“Mister Pasternak and Vasilev, and little miss Saltanova.” She said, and it was almost scary how she knew Yelena’s surname, considering her infrequency in class. “What can I help you with?”

Dimitri looked at Yelena, and she gave a few steps forward, offering the teacher the little card. She rose an eyebrow at it.

“What does it say?” Yelena asked, looking up, and the professor snorted.

“Well, perhaps if you came to class you’d know, miss Saltanova.” She said, and looked at the card once more, before giving it back to Yelena. “Although, perhaps not, considering it’s French. That is the Grand Duchess Anastasia, of our glorious Russia.”

The last part had some sarcasm in it, but Yelena barely noticed, busy looking at the card of Anastasia. She seemed a little bit like a member of royalty…

* * *

“I must admit, I don’t know who this Sergei fellow is.” Anastasia said, tearing her eyes off the ceiling for a moment to look at Yelena. At some point, they had laid down, but Yelena couldn’t pinpoint when. “How come he never came around, if he is a childhood friend of yours? Have you been hiding him, Yelena?”

“It’d be hard to, since he died.” Yelena replied, and Anastasia blushed, making her laugh a little. “Don’t worry. It was ten years ago, on a trench. It… Changed Dimitri.”

Dimitri before the war and after it were two different people, like water and oil; but wasn’t Yelena, as well? And Anastasia was at the center.

“The card, though.” Anastasia called out, poking Yelena, face too close. “What happened to it?”

Yelena smiled, the jewels burning her pocket.

“Well, when the war started, I gave it to Dimitri and Sergei. Told them to share it, as a memento of home.” She smiled, and Anastasia looked into Yelena’s eyes, approaching a little more. “The card was with Sergei when he died, and his last act was to give it to Dimitri, so I wouldn’t say it gave him much luck.”

The sole luck, if someone could call it like such, was that it hadn’t been stained with blood. Dimitri had kept it, during the entire war and the revolution, and only had given it back to tease Yelena, when she had all but forgotten the card, thinking it had got lost with Sergei.

Anastasia giggled, childish.

“I’m sure anything of yours can’t be a bad luck charm.” She declared, inching closer, and Yelena inched closer as well, noticing, for the first time, how many eyelashes Anastasia had, full and blonde. She could even see herself in Anastasia’s blue-gray eyes, a distorted, lovesick reflection of herself.

Yelena was in love, wasn’t she? Maybe since that first day, in the forest, or maybe before that, when she saw Anastasia looking at her with fury and rage, but -

It was love. In the end of the day, the date did not matter; what mattered was the feeling, and Yelena could feel its root deep inside her.

“Considering the fate Sergei had, I’m not so sure.” Yelena joked, smiling.

“Is it with you? Right now, I mean.” Yelena nodded, dreading the next question - which, of course, would be can I see it -, but what came instead was Anastasia kissing her softly. Her eyes grew to the size of plates, before closing themselves, enjoying the moment.

Anastasia was soft and warm, and her lips matched it, the two coming together without barely thinking, and Yelena allowed herself to forget her station, who _Anastasia_ was, who she was, what she had done - for now, in the entire world, there was only Yelena and Anya.

When they separated, it was with their cheeks red, and a giggle passed by their lips, the two of them still stuck into their own little bubble.

“Can I see it?” Anastasia asked, and Yelena, still forgetting herself, nodded. She sat up, taking from her pocket the little card, and the two jewels fell out as Anastasia sat. She looked at the two, and frowned. “Those are mine. Mother gave them to me, on my birthday, every year...”

She left the bed, barely thinking, it seemed; reaching for the little jewels, eyes glazed over as Yelena cradled the card close to her chest. No, no, not now, please...

“A servant… Couldn’t possibly get two pearls and a diamond each year, right?” Anastasia asked, looking at the two little damned things. “And once, the Czar’s kids fell out of a tree, and I remember… Falling. Foliage and...”

Yelena watched, joining her on the floor, and giving up the card, sliding it to Anastasia. The girl grabbed it, and a mixture of emotions passed through her face.

“That’s me. I fell. I…” She shook her head, and smiled, hand in her forehead, fingers touching the scar she had there. “So that’s how I knew she was an impostor.”

Yelena stared, and Anastasia’s eyes turned to her, the card of herself still in her hands. Fate was sealed, and there was no turning back, now.

“Yelena, I think…” She then shook her head, and Yelena forced a smile to pass through her lips. “No, I am Anastasia. And… And, oh God…”

Anastasia bit her lower lip, and Yelena hugged her for a moment, unsure if she could touch the girl - but Anastasia leaned into her, murmuring her sisters and brother’s names, and Yelena waited, murmuring sweet nothings to calm down the girl.

“My family is dead. Mother, father, Alexei…” She started, and Yelena let her go, watching. “But… _Olga_. The woman we saw today is my aunt. I have a family! Yelena, can you believe it?”

She could. Yelena had always known Anastasia had a family, and now she was the one alone. Alone, stranded in a place she didn’t know the language, illiterate and poor.

Yelena could feel her heart splintering into several pieces. She was gone, now, far away from Yelena, she could see it, in the way Anastasia smiled, like a treasure had been found.

“Your imperial highness.” Yelena said, bowing as deeply as she could. Tears stung her eyes, but she did her best to hide them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if youre curious abt the card yelena gushes over it's  this ugly little shit 


	6. Chapter Five: everything to win

Anastasia smiled, kicking her feet in the air as she waited for Olga Alexandrovna to have her meeting with them. Or, rather, with Anastasia; Yelena would leave the two talk alone.

Soon after Anastasia had realized who she was, Dimitri had arrived, smiling, and with news he had arranged a meeting with Olga Alexandrovna for the following day, a bundle of clothes under his arm. Dresses, simple and clean and not mended anywhere. For the meeting, Dimitri had said.

At first, Yelena hadn’t understood why - the clothes they had was enough, wasn’t it? -, but seeing how fancy the ambient where Olga Alexandrovna stayed was, she understood why her patched up skirt didn’t fit.

She was poor, truth to be told. Looking at the Anastasia, by the corner of her eye - Anastasia, who seemed so comfortable on the dress she wore, Anastasia whose features matched the decor, _somehow_ , Anastasia. who was of royal blood -, she was sure she did not match the place she was on.

The door opening - double doors, fancy as they came, decorated to the sky and back - opened, and someone asked that the next person come in, for Olga was ready to receive her.

“Shall we go?” Anastasia asked, jumping from her chair, offering Yelena a hand, but she shook her head. “Why not?”

“It’s a… Private matter, no? Go on, and if you need me, I’ll be right here.” She said, and Anastasia nodded, before turning back, hesitating for a moment. She wanted Anastasia to stay, to be by her side, but... “Go, Anya. I‘ll be fine.”

Anastasia went, and the door closed behind her. Dimitri, who was seemingly very interested in the gossip magazine rag he was reading, said nothing, but offered her a quiet, pitying look.

That was it for them, wasn’t it? Anastasia had a family, and Yelena, who was a no one, would be booted out. It was the end. Anastasia got a family, and Yelena...

“This was goodbye, you know?” He said, and Yelena - who had been thinking exactly that - had to bite her tongue, as the sound of voices carried out to them, muffled by the door. Dimitri’s eyes, meanwhile, never left the magazine. “Anya dear is dead. There is another one on her place, now.”

“I know.” She replied, simple, and rose, starting to pace back and forth, waiting for Anastasia to come out and tell her that Olga Alexandrovna had just confirmed who she was, who she really was. “But what if, Dimitri…”

What if Anastasia chose her? What if...

“Are you daft now, Lena? There is no  _what ifs_  to be had.” He all but barked, and Yelena lowered her shoulders. She looked at him, and his eyes - dark green, like a forest before a storm - stared at her, softening a little when he saw Yelena staring back. “Lena, what is done is done. There is no ifs and buts. This is what it is.”

Yelena sighed, and went back to pacing.

* * *

Laughter resonated through the doors, and Yelena rose her head, almost sure she could feel the soles of her shoes now being thinner. The door opened, and Yelena grabbed her braid, slowly unmaking it. Anastasia smiled at her, and Yelena could feel the guilt seeping through her bones.

“Yelena, come in, come in!” Said Anastasia, giddy as a child. She could see Olga Alexandrovna on the other chair, seemingly happy and pleased, like all was right in the world. She had just found her niece, thought dead and now risen from the ashes of a forest; of course she’d be happy.

This was fine. This was fate.

Yelena obeyed, entering the room, offering a quiet look to Dimitri before the doors closed behind her, the braid she had been wearing almost entirely undone. Anastasia gestured, grandiose and dramatic, to the empty chair, and Yelena sat down.

“This is the one who found me, her name is Yelena Saltanova, aunt Olga.” Anastasia said, and Olga Alexandrovna looked at her.

“It is a pleasure to know my niece’s saviour. Tell me, how did you find her? Anastasia told me something, but...” She waved off, and Yelena smiled, tense. It was time to play her part.

“I told you, she found me - “ Anastasia said, but Yelena interrupted her.

“I worked at the Ipatiev House.” She started, feeling the room grow cold as she kept her narrative that contradicted the lie she had been telling Anastasia for the past eight years. The growing horror in their faces would be, in any other situation, funny, but as Yelena rose from her chair, having ended her story, she couldn’t find any humour in it. “As such, I take my leave.”

She rose, bowing slightly, and Anastasia gasped.

“You…” Anastasia rose, and Yelena stared at her, the same old fury back in the girl’s eyes. Yelena had missed it. “ _You_! You were the servant girl the new Commander brought!”

“Call me by what I was, your imperial highness.” Had Yelena always been so bitter? Had her voice always been so filled with malice? Had she always harboured the sort of resentment in her words implied? She didn’t know. “I was a spy, plain and simple.”

Anastasia rose, banging her hands on the table, making the fine china on it rattle dangerously. Her eyes were fire and brimstone, and Yelena, if she closed her eyes, could pretend she was back in the House of Correction, but instead, all she did was stare, not daring herself to lose a minute, a second more of Anastasia. She couldn’t afford it.

“Get out.” Anastasia said, voice cold, restless as the Neva, and Yelena smiled. “Get out and never let me lay my eyes on you again.”

“As you wish, your imperial highness.” Yelena replied, bowing as deeply as she could again, before taking her leave as Anastasia said something she didn’t fully hear, but that sounded like “ _get out_ ”.

Dimitri waved at Anastasia, when Yelena opened the door, and he put his coat over her shoulders. Tears were threatening to spill, but Yelena kept her head high. She owed it to her pride, to _herself_. It was what she still had.

“Good job, comrade.” Dimitri whispered, and Yelena offered a weak smile. “For a reward, why don’t I take you to a nice bar, hm? A place to drown your sorrows. What do you say?”

She didn’t answer; what was her opinion worth, now that she had lost the asset? If he wanted to take her to a bar, then he might as well.

* * *

Dimitri took her to the bar, a hazy place in the Schönenberg neighborhood, where everyone spoke in a slurred mixture of German and English, perhaps, Yelena catching, every once in a while, a whisper of Russian.

“Where are we?” She asked, the music piercing her ears as she watched men dancing together, women sitting with other women and drinking.

“A bar, Lena. Go sit, and I’ll bring you something. Perhaps tell you a story.” He hummed, voice to her, but eyes on the man with blonde hair and Sergei’s likeness.

Of course. Of  _course_ he would look for Sergei in every stranger with blonde hair. But, in a way, as she looked around, she was looking for Anastasia; as such, who was she to speak anything about Dimitri and his wandering eyes?

“Sure.” Yelena replied, because it wasn’t like she had any other choice now, did she? She was alone, stranded in a city she didn’t know the language of, with no way back home.

With a sigh, Yelena found a table, secluded in a corner, watching the men dance. She felt like her clothes weren’t appropriate for a nightclub - which she guessed it was, in fact -, but when were her clothes appropriate for anything other than working?

A woman - perhaps her age, with blonde hair and in the low light her eyes were greyish and blue - approached, sitting on the other side of the small table, and speaking in a quick german that made Yelena pale.

“Sorry, I don’t…” Yelena started, and the woman, blinking quickly smiled.

“Sorry, dear.” She said, Russian accent thicker than a forest, voice a low drawl. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen any Russians here.”

“It’s alright. I’m sorry.” Yelena replied, slow and careful, and the woman, putting her elbows on the table, smiled, face on her hands. “I’m… Ekaterina.”

Yelena was, _theoretically_ , undercover; why blow it in a shady bar in Berlin, even if her heart was broken? There was no point.

“A lovely name for a lovely girl. I’m Gertrud, but you might as well call me Trudie.” She replied, putting a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Yelena saw no reason for a nickname to be longer than a name. “So, what brings you here?”

“My friend, mostly.” Yelena replied, careful, eyes looking for Dimitri in the crowd, but she couldn’t find him.

Gertrud smiled. She looked similar, in that low lighting, to -

No.

“Well, what a great friend for bringing such a cute girl here.” She winked, and Yelena felt warmth wash over her face. “Are you new to Berlin, darling?”

She drawled every syllable, low and sweet, and Yelena blushed more. Gertrud waved at someone, and Yelena looked, once more, for Dimitri in the crowd. She didn’t find him - although perhaps the man dancing on the dance floor was him -, and as such, her eyes went back to Gertrud.

“Somewhat.” Yelena replied, and Gertrud smiled. Well, she was in Berlin, stranded with nowhere to go, now that Anastasia had forsaken her. Why not at least look around, before being sent back to the Union? “Do you know any nice places? I’m afraid I have seen little.”

“Oh, darling, you’ve asked just the right gal.” Gertrud said, eyes glinting on the low light. They seemed more grey than blue, Yelena noticed, and she… She sort of looked like Anastasia, in this light. The voice was all wrong, though. Drinks arrived, and Gertrud made a motion to Yelena sip one. She obeyed, the taste foreign on her tongue, and all too sweet. “There’s so many fantastic places in lovely Berlin! Let’s see…”

Gertrud listed off places - art museums and theaters and bars, and Yelena, who had never been to these places, lapped it up. It all sounded so new and fresh, and her mind imagined the places to look similar to the palaces she cleaned in Leningrad. They probably didn’t, but it was her imagination, and she could do whatever she wanted with it.

But, in a way, the message was nice - if she was here, away, why not stay? Why not see everything, everywhere, anywhere? As a child, she had dreamed of seeing places far away, but life had squashed it. Why not stay, lie low, be a spy? Why not stay and see around?

The issue was, however, was her imagination - and in her mind’s eye, it wasn’t Gertrud who guided her, hand in hand, close and warm; no, it was Anastasia. Anastasia was the one that went to see _The Swan Lake_ with Yelena, Anastasia was the one who saw the painting with Yelena, Anastasia went to the shady bars with her.

 _Poor Gertrud,_ Yelena thought, far away, as the drink made her head feel light, the image of Gertrud and Anastasia mixing in her head with the two were the same. The fact she kept coming closer, slowly sitting by her side, helped.

“And, let me know, Ekaterina dear…” She started, sweet as a candy, fingers wrapping in Yelena’s wrist. “Where are you sleeping?”

“A hotel, a bit far from here, I think.” Yelena wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem to stop Gertrud. She rose, tugging Yelena, and Yelena followed.

“Fantastic! It’s a bit late, and let’s be honest, Berlin is no place for a pair of good girls like us, so late.” She practically brought Yelena with her, waving to a man in the crowd - the man who looked sort of like the dead Czar, and Yelena was almost sure it was Dimitri by his side, but she hadn’t been able to see it through the crowd -, and the man waved back. Gertrud then went outside, the cold air of the night bringing some sense of clarity to Yelena, but not nearly enough.

Anastasia, in front of her, laughed, taking off her scarf (when had Anastasia gotten there? Where was Gertrud?) and putting it around Yelena’s shoulders.

“It’s cold, and your clothes are thin, darling.” She stated, all but purring, and Yelena could feel the warmth.

“Thanks. Where…?” Yelena asked, and Anastasia, smiling (the smile was wrong, but under this yellow lighting, she could pretend) pushed her, feet clumsily kicking the dirty snow as they walked. However, Anastasia, seeing a group of men approach, threw the two in a small alley. “Is something - ”

The men passed by, laughing, but Yelena didn’t see it - Anastasia had kissed her, pulling her closer through the scarf, and Yelena, pressed against the wall, could feel her knees growing weak. She kissed the girl back, fingers tangling themselves on Anastasia’s hair, and when they separated, Yelena smiled at her.

“Anastasia.” She said, breathless, and Gertrud’s face seemed shocked, twisting in ways Anastasia’s face wouldn‘t and bringing her back to reality. Blushing, she let down her head, and gave a step aside. “I’m sorry, I…”

“No, don’t worry, darling. Better I know now, don’t you think?” Gertrud said, and Yelena hurriedly took off her scarf. She chuckled, bitter. “Keep it, Ekaterina. I mean it. Think of it as a ‘ _welcome to Berlin_ ’ gift.”

“But…” Yelena started, but Gertrud leaned in, kissing her cheek for the briefest of moments. She then righted herself, adjusting her clothes for a moment.

“Ekaterina, darling, at least you didn’t waste my time, telling me you are over this girl. It’s the least I can do.” She replied and smiled - and her smile was nothing like Anastasia’s. The drink had gotten to her head. “I hope you lead a good life, Ekaterina.”

“I’m sorry.” Yelena said, and Gertrud looked at her, saccharine sweet.

“Are you, though?” And, with that, Gertrud left, leaving Yelena alone on the alley, with a scarf that wasn’t hers. She disregarded all common sense, and sat down, wondering if there was any way the night could get worse.

She heard familiar footsteps approaching, and bit back a groan. It could get worse.

“Things didn’t go well with that lovely girl, I presume?” Asked Dimitri, and Yelena looked up at him. He seemed drunk, face flushed, and a grin decorated his face as he sat down.

“What do you care, Mitya? Tell me. Are you here to mock me?” Yelena asked, bringing the scarf closer to her neck, and Dimitri, with a heavy sigh, took off his jacket and put it on her shoulders. “... Thanks.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He replied, and rested his back against the building, looking up to the closed sky. Yelena stared at him. “And no, I’m not here to mock you. I know it doesn’t seem like it, Lena dear, but I care about you.”

He always had. She knew this. She took off her eyes from him, looking to the front of her, but there was nothing important to be seen there. Still, her dark eyes were focused there, because she didn’t want to look at Dimitri.

“I should have never left the Union. I should have stayed, alone, and should have left Anya to go to her own devices. At least… At least I wouldn’t be in this sorry state.” She bemoaned, and looked, irritated, at Dimitri when he laughed. “What is so funny?”

“You would never be in this state if you had left her to die, you know.” His smile was wry and infuriating, and Yelena gasped. “Think it through, Lena. If she died, you’d be still in good old Sverdlovsk, married to some good old farmer, or, hell, even to me, living it up as a mother of five in Leningrad. I do know the boys of our village absolutely adored your pretty face. Any of them could be at your beck and call, had you...”

“I would _never_ let her die, you…!” She rose, interrupting him, and Dimitri seemed amused by all of this; it only brought her anger. How dare he, mock what she had done? Yelena had saved Anastasia out of the goodness in her heart, and here he was, laughing at her. “I could not let her die, I could not! How could you expect that of me?”

“It was the orders of comrade Lenin, although. Directly from Moscow, Lena dear, and you disobeyed. As a good and loyal Russian, it was your _duty_ to leave her to die, in that forest. Alone.” Dimitri seemed to think, and Yelena wasn’t sure if it was her childhood friend she was looking at, or if it was the agent from the Joint State Police. “No, wait, not alone - her little brother was by her side, wasn’t he? Alexei, I think. Wasn’t that his name, my favorite little spy?”

She saw red, anger filling her veins - Yelena couldn’t. Not even as a theoretical exercise, she could leave Anastasia to die in that hole, alive but barely, by the side of her battered and bruised little brother. It was cruel, inhuman, and Yelena, who loved Anastasia with all her being, could not be one more of the soldiers, digging a grave and leaving the alive behind.

“Then, perhaps, I am not a good and loyal Russian.” She spat out, crossing her arms, and huffed. “And neither are you, mr. Intelligence agent, for helping me. Who provided us fake papers, Dimitri? Who gave us a home, jobs, _food_? If I am not a good and loyal Russian for allowing Anastasia to survive, then so are you!”

He laughed, and Yelena was ready to slap him. Her hand was twitching, and she could barely wait for the words that would spill out of his mouth, sealing his fate.

“I am not a good Russian, my dearest Lena. Why do you think I allowed that to happen? I could‘ve shot her on sight. I had orders to, in fact, if she proved herself a threat to national security.” He replied, and her anger froze, confusion showing in her face. Dimitri, meanwhile laughed. “You think I did it all for Anya dear out of the friendship we had? Because I wanted to _impress_ Lenin? Dearest Lena, you’re but a child.”

She stared at him, not able to understand it. if it hadn’t been for her, nor for Lenin, then why…?

“I did it for the love I held for her father.” Dimitri replied, and the dots connected, slowly, on her head. Did he mean…? As if reading her mind, he smiled. “The Czar, yes. Listen to what I am about to tell, Lena, because it is the last time you’ll ever hear it.”

* * *

Sergei dies, and shell shock is the reason, in the medical records.

Dimitri, who had been in the trenches, who had to go after Sergei when he went into No-man's-land, knew the real reason was a bullet to his chest, and the subsequent infection.

He had been shot, and while Sergei hadn’t made it far enough to be transported back to Saint Petersburg - he died a few hours later, muttering his mother’s name, begging with blind eyes for relief of the pain, even the sisters of mercy unable to do anything for him. There were no more supplies, and there was no relief, and Dimitri kissed his chapped lips for one last time, death bitter in his mouth as his friend and lover went to a place Dimitri couldn’t follow.

Thus, he went alone to the Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Hospital. Well, not alone: the train he had been all but thrown in had other men, but between moans of pain and the hushed whispers of the sisters accompanying him, it was the same.

He made an acquaintanceship with a factory worker, who passed him Marx and Engels’ works - old and battered, its pages frail and yellowed -, and that changed his view of the world. The current system, one of autocracy and royal debauchery, was not right. A system where a majority had nothing, and a minority had too much - and sometimes, this “too much” became, easily, a debt the majority would have to pay later, even if they never even had seen whatever it was. It was injustice at its peak.

For that to be solved, the Czar and his system must fall. The option Marx and Engels offered was just and fair, and honestly, Dimitri could see it working. He used to be the most patriotic of men - he went to war for his country; he lived and breathed for the Czar -, but slowly, he become no more.

Dimitri, however, still held to his childish ideals, that the Czar was good and knew what was best for Russia. He didn’t utter it anymore, but deep inside, he -  he still wished the Czar changed his ways. He still wished for a rule like those of the English; a monarch that was a mere figurehead, and a parliament, filled with democratically elected representatives, to take decisions. Alas, he was Russian, not British, and the Czar was the most divine, most right of rulers.

Soon, though, it wouldn’t be like that. The revolution would rise, and with it, the Czar would -

“This is the last room?” A voice said, bringing Dimitri out of his thoughts, taking his blind eyes out of the window. He looked to the door, were a man - bearded, not particularly good looking, but there was this aura on him. A soft aura, commonly found in weak men. Dimitri already pitied him.

But his clothes - the fancy clothes, the gold shining in his epaulettes. This was a man of high social standing. Dimitri scoffed; probably some duke or something another, looking for some publicity.

“Yes, my Czar.” The nurse said, and Dimitri did his best to smooth his face, hiding his book. “His wound is taking a while to heal, and all the other rooms are over their capacity to put one more bed. As such, my Czar, we have put him in this ward, until the next batch arrives.”

Did they think he was deaf? He wasn’t. He avoided rolling his eyes, ears picking up the sound of conversation as he tuned out. Dimitri, looking out - the river Neva in front of him, passive, waters limpid as it could be, cold and empty -, sighed.

“You look tired, my good soldier.” The voice of the czar said, and Dimitri looked at him through the reflex of the glass. The czar wasn’t tall - Dimitri was taller, a head at least, and he had grey-blue eyes and a full beard. His clothes shined, even in the reflection, and Dimitri turned to face him, flustered for a second before recomposing himself. “Is the war on your mind?”

“Isn’t it in all of our minds, my Czar?” Dimitri replied, the bitterness he felt inside seeping through his voice. The man smiled, sitting by the empty chair - as always, since Yelena was far, far away, still unaware Sergei was dead. Or not; perhaps his corpse had already reached his parents.

He would have to write a letter, and by God, he didn’t want to. To tell Yelena Sergei - sweet Sergei, whose dreams never covered a terrain beyond the Iset river. Sergei, who just wanted to settle down and raise sheep. Sergei, who only went to war because Dimitri wanted to fight. Dimitri, who wanted to run away from Russia with Sergei, as if life was a romantic story.

Stupid. Stupid, stupidly in love. Now all he had was Sergei’s blood in his hands, and nothing more.

The czar chuckled, and Dimitri stared at him. His eyes, pale as the Neva in front of him, seemed to have fun, but Dimitri couldn’t see it.

“Well, you’re right. It was a bad question, wasn’t it?” He said, and Dimitri kept staring. “Perhaps the reason you looked so solemn is that you were thinking about someone back home. A lover, if I may be so bold? Family, perchance?”

He had no one but Yelena back home, and Yelena didn’t exactly count. She was like one of his little sisters. Well, considering the rest had died, Yelena was his little sister.

“In a way.” Dimitri replied, and the Czar smiled - soft, like this wasn’t a man with blood in his hands and deaths ordered by him in his conscience. But then, in a way, wasn’t Dimitri the one with blood in his hands, as well? Wasn’t he an equal to the Czar, in that matter?

He was, without ever being.

“Well, love is complicated, soldier. But, if you allow me the indiscretion, let things run its way.” He said, and Dimitri knew that his vague answer was to blame. “Well, although me and Alix had an easier time, but…”

He could imagine. Dimitri was sure the life was royalty was one without worries. Not worrying if your loved ones would die in a horrific war was probably nice, considering he seemed nowhere near the front, and so did his children. He had heard his wife and daughters were sisters of mercy somewhere, but of course it wouldn’t be near the front.

“But, I think…” The czar continued, and Dimitri’s thoughts turned to him. How nice it’d be, to be always warm and well fed. To never smell death. “I think, soldier, if we exchanged places, we would have the same conversation, wouldn’t we? But it’d be me, longing for her, and you, safe with her, every night. So I guess that springing you into this conversation isn’t fair, is it?”

“I believe so. I…” Dimitri choked up at the memory of Sergei’s smile, of Sergei’s laugh, summer days spent under the sun, in the grass. The Czar averted his eyes, and Dimitri silently thanked him for the moment. “God, for… I’d kill.”

Sergei’s name had almost left his lips, but he had avoided it. He really didn’t want the punishment for the crime he committed daily, even if it was to love someone.

“We all have a person we would kill for, soldier.” The Czar said, and Dimitri looked at him. “If you don’t mind an old man’s rambling, I’d do… Well, not exactly ruler-worthy things for my family. I assume you’re the same.”

He had almost died for Sergei - of course he would…

Dimitri looked at him, and the man smiled, like he knew what was going through his mind. He could feel his heart pounding, fast, the smile gracious and practiced, and -

Oh, no. No, no, _no_. No, anyone but the Czar, anyone but the man Dimitri wanted to see go down. He refused to have his heart beat faster for a man that had offered him some kind words. It would be too haughty.

“Papa!” Said a female voice, breathless, from the door; both men looked at it, and it was a little girl, only, at most, fifteen. She had blonde hair down, and her eyes were restless, like turbulent waters. “Papa, Alexei…!”

The man rose in a sudden hurry, and the girl - she was Yelena’s age, wasn’t she? Dimitri wondered how she was, in these trying times - fidgeted, as if barely able to wait until he crossed the ward.

“Well, seems like duty calls. Family is sometimes worse than war, I tell you, but I wouldn’t exchange it for nothing.” He said, solemn looking, and Dimitri bowed his head slightly. He still owed the man some deference. “If you need help to write a letter home, soldier, I’m sure a sister wouldn’t mind helping.”

“I can write, so it is not an issue.” Dimitri replied, and the man looked at him. He blushed a little, feeling shame for doing so. “My Czar.”

“You…” Dimitri wondered if executions were still in vogue between the royalty, but when the Czar chuckled and left, he looked at his back, as he approached the girl, who talked in a torrent of words, pulling him away, wondering what he could be like.

She offered a look at Dimitri, and when the Czar wasn’t watching, she put out her tongue at him, childish. What the -

Dimitri blinked quickly at that, as the girl kept pulling away at the Czar, and laughter bubbled over his lips, doubling over. The situation was ridiculous, and yet -

And yet. With a soft sigh, he turned his eyes back to the Neva, and picked up his book again. The Czar still should fall, but his heart sang now to see him again.

* * *

After the revolution waltzed through Russia, Dimitri worked on the intelligence side. He had seen many decisions pass through his hands, even if it was on its way out, a messenger to a higher up in the commanding chain.

He was one of the first and last persons to see the order to kill the czar and his family, and all he could think was about that little interaction he had with the man, and the girl (whom he learned was his youngest daughter, Anastasia, after seeing a picture of her. He had been right in guessing she was Yelena’s age), and he could barely think of anything else, that day. He wondered how Yelena, who worked in the House, would see it. Would she see it as a murder, or because of the revolution? Ideally, Yelena wouldn’t even know anything had happened.

He choked on his spit when he read she had, _coincidentally_ , found a girl by the side of the road, by the name of Anya, suffering from amnesia, and laughed. Of course. Of course! By the description, Yelena had saved one of the sisters. If he’d have to guess, Maria, perhaps - the soldiers always had had a softer spot for Maria, why not go easier on her? -, but he wouldn’t know until he saw the girl in question.

He answered Yelena that he’d work things out for them. Saint Petersburg always needed more cleaners, more workers, more people. He hummed, content with himself, and convinced Lenin and the Party to not kill this girl, this asset. They handed him a gun, however, just in case.

She was an asset. This wasn’t up for discussion. If this was Maria - or any of the sisters, in fact -, they needed to convince this conveniently amnesiac girl that Russia wouldn’t kill her. If a member of the royal family could be shown as an asset to promulgate that the revolution was good and/or to prove that no, the imperial family hadn’t been killed (as if!), to show that… Well, Dimitri was sure that Lenin could spin something.

He expected Maria, perhaps Tatiana - they always seemed the more resilient of the four, unlike Olga and Anastasia -, but to his surprise, it was the girl from the hospital with the Czar, so many years ago. Older, perhaps, but Yelena also looked older, thin and war-torn.

Anastasia had survived. Anastasia, the little childish girl. The child of the Czar, for whom Dimitri still held some love.

He had a duty to her. In a way. In the most distant, absurd of ways, he had to protect this child.

“Mitya!” Yelena called, and Dimitri smiled. He had his part to play, as a double agent, and what he was, if not the perfect spy?

* * *

“What is the _point_ of this story, Mitya?” Yelena asked, feeling tired, and Dimitri ignored her for a moment. She looked at him, his face darkened by shadows and time.

“My point is, Lena, is that by having things with Anastasia cut off, you’re free. No more bound to her, not her babysitter. You can live whatever life you want. Why not live it, then?”

“It’s not that simple.” She replied, hugging her knees, burying her face.

“It is. Lena, you’re free to go anywhere, to leave with no ties to your past, to Anastasia, to Russia, to anyone else.” He smiled, and patted her head. “Live, Yelena, if not for yourself, then for me.”

“You can come, you know?” She said, rising, a plan half-forming in her mind. Leaving sounded nice, leaving behind her pathetic self and Anastasia, living somewhere where the next meal didn’t involve clothing items. It sounded idyllic. Nice. Peaceful. Yelena craved it, in a way.

Dimitri, meanwhile, smiled sadly at her.

“We both know I can’t.” He said, and left, leaving Yelena behind to think.

With a deep breath, moments after Dimitri disappeared, Yelena went out of the alley, wondering where the train station could be, and where she could go. It wasn’t like Yelena wanted to live somewhere.

She just wished to give Anastasia space, even if it meant living in the opposite side of the world than her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re: dimitri's czar story: the czar did visit hospitals but unfortunately i couldnt get much info abt that. i do know his oldest daughters and wife worked at hospitals for soldiers during the war and they were nice and friendly to the patients so im basing it on That


	7. Chapter Six: meant to be

Anastasia paced in her room, the sound of the birds foreign and yet familiar, coming through her window. The morning had come, like every one before, but this one was different.

For starters, her day hadn’t started with Yelena, but it was for a good reason. Yelena had...

What Yelena had done to her - since the days in the House, years ago, when Anastasia was herself - had been unfair. Unjust. She broke her heart, but these feelings - feelings she had been nurturing for the past six years, feelings that had boiled over the night before she had realized who she really was - would not go away so easily.

Besides, it wasn’t like she could be in love with a woman, could she? She was a Grand Duchess, and no Grand Duchess was ever married to a woman. It was impossible, not meant to be, and as such, she should deal with it herself. Closing herself off, finding a good and proper _husband_ , raising a family.

She shuddered. The very thought of being with a _man_ made her want to puke. The simple _idea_ of being a mother… Ugh. She would rather go back to Leningrad and die by firing squad after revealing herself as Anastasia than to have the fate expected of a lady of her station. Yelena would not have...

With a shake of her head, Anastasia bit her lower lip, looking out of the window. She couldn’t just go back to Leningrad, back to her job as a simple street sweeper, back to that little apartment with thin walls with Yelena, her lips on hers, warm and soft and -

Anastasia groaned; why did her every other thought now seem to turn back to Yelena? The girl had lied to her, had hidden the truth from her, and yet -

And yet Anastasia couldn’t help but loving Yelena. She missed Yelena, she missed her so much. Waking up without her had been odd, like a piece of her puzzle had been missing and she had only found out after it was near completion. Sure, she had her own self back, but the cost was high. She had lost everything.

But still… With a soft sigh, she kept pacing, a tiger stuck in its cage with nowhere to go until aunt Olga woke up, just pace around and decide what to do with the rest of her life. Not like she had any idea, in fact. Before the cellar, she knew what her life would be. But now, _now_ …

Now all she could think was going back to Yelena, going back to cleaning the streets all day - she couldn’t help but wonder how Esfir, Anzhela, and Masha were, if they had been able to eat. Usually, they found something and shared (Anastasia always picked the smaller part, because she knew Masha and Anzhela had children to feed, and because Dimitri always brought something for them) whatever it was, because it was the only way the four of them wouldn’t be hungry. The only consolation Anastasia had now was that their shares would be bigger. Knowing her friends’ soup would taste better was...

Well, it wasn’t waking up with or kissing Yelena, but it was nice, too.

Anastasia went to the window, the river in the distance foreign to her. Its surface glittered in the early light, softly tinged in pinks and oranges, and Anastasia wondered if its waters were still or raging, if they seemed as peaceful from the distance only to trick whoever fell into them. In a way, the river mirrored Yelena - seemingly calm and innocent, beautiful and kind from a distance, but it probably held terrible secrets in its depth, murky waters that didn’t let one see its insides.

And she had fallen in that river, drank from its waters, enmeshed herself with it until she was not Anastasia, but _Anya_ , and she had done it with such fervor and love that Anastasia still felt its coldness. She tore her eyes out from the window, frustration building out in her throat.

She wanted to scream out of the window, but it wasn’t polite to do so. She wanted to run away back home, but her home had been a nest of lies. With a frustrated growl, Anastasia marched to her bed, where she picked up one of the multiple pillows - so many she barely knew what to do with them -, soft and frustrating, and beat it against the unmade bedding, biting her lower lip as so not scream, the feathers floating around her as the pillow exploded.

She had nowhere to go, nowhere but a path she didn’t truly wish to take, and a path she couldn’t take.

“Are you satisfied?” Asked her aunt, forcing Anastasia - breathless, face warm with blood, with shame and fury etched in her expression, surely - to stop her assault on the pillows.

Aunt Olga, however, didn’t seem to mind the sudden covering of feathers on the floor, smile placid in her face. She walked over the sea of feathers, sitting in the bed as if she didn’t notice the feathers strewn around.

“Aunt Olga, I’m sorry, I just…” She started, and aunt Olga looked at her like she could read her mind. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”

“You miss that girl. Black hair, braided, servant.” Aunt Olga said, as if she was seeing inside her heart. Anastasia puffed, sitting by her aunt’s side, the empty pillowcase resting in her lap.

“I don’t.” She lied smoothly, putting a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her aunt stared, brown eyes warm and affable. She missed the woman so much, all those years, and never noticed how.  “She lied to me, she… She...”

The words were stuck in her throat, choking her, and Anastasia fell silent. The words weighed, heavy, on her throat. Yelena had lied, and they had broken her trust; that was the truth, and it was black and white simple.

“She protected you and stopped you from being killed.” Aunt Olga continued, and Anastasia shook her head. No, she refused. “Nastya, darling, please think, use that pretty little head of yours. What would have happened if the Bolsheviks had found you?”

“They would have killed me,” Anastasia replied, as if she weren’t talking about herself. She frowned, when aunt Olga said nothing, and knew it was a silent invitation to keep her train of thought. “And then, they would have killed Yelena for saving me.”

“Killed, yes, and worse. War is war, Nastya.” Anastasia couldn’t help but notice that her aunt wasn’t using the usual nickname for her - _Anya_ -, as if to avoid reminding her of who she had been. “But now, think. What would have happened if the whites had found you?”

“They would have…” Anastasia started, but aunt Olga shook her head, interrupting her.

“They would have shot Yelena and then, they would have interrogated you, no matter the condition you were in. I might be old, Anastasia, but I’m not blind. They would have interrogated you, deemed you a pretender, and shot you because they’d not recognize you.” The words shocked Anastasia, but she figured there was truth to them. It was a possibility, truth to be told, if what she had heard had any truth to it, instead of being just propaganda.

“But what if they had recognized me, aunt Olga?” Anastasia insisted, and her aunt smiled bitterly.

“Then they’d have shot Yelena, and when the white army was captured, Anastasia, you would’ve died either way.” Anastasia looked at her aunt in shock, and her aunt smiled as if it was nothing but a request for more tea. “Anastasia, please, see through your judgment, and notice there was no path but the one you took that would have left you alive.”

“But she could have told me, aunt…!” Anastasia protested, feeling childish, but she had to. “She could have told me, she could have not hidden my identity…!”

“And you would have asked to get out of Russia as soon as possible, and then gotten shot because you would be hasty.” Her aunt shook her head, and grabbed Anastasia’s hands delicately. “Nastya, think. Use your pretty head, and think. It does not matter, the past, now. She kept you alive and well, and she saved you. She could have left you to die, but she didn’t. And _now_ you’re all fussy because she didn’t tell you who you were?”

“Yes!” Anastasia cried out, and her aunt just held her hand tighter. “I spent years wondering who I was, why I was left alone to die, and she knew, all this time! She held me when I cried about it, aunt, and she knew, she knew, she knew!”

Tears stung her eyes, but Anastasia refused to let them fall. Her aunt, meanwhile, sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Then why are you still so hung up on her?” Anastasia knew when her aunt was prodding, digging deeper to get to the juicy bits - she was just like aunt Xenia in this matter -, but as of now, she didn’t care. “She betrayed your every trust, and yet, it is to her your mind returns. Do you love this girl?”

She did - she had fallen for Yelena, to the point where she was willing to let go of a peaceful life in comfort for a tiny apartment with a ratty bed. She was willing to give up being Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov, to be Anya Mikhailovna Vasiliev, to give up being royalty to be a commoner. What was that, if not love? She was willing to uproot her entire life just for Yelena, and yet -

“More than anything, aunt Olga,” Anastasia answered, and her aunt hugged her. She sobbed, loudly, uncaring for appearances as she let herself go. “But I’m so afraid, aunt Olga. What if…”

“Darling Nastya.” Her aunt let go of her, hands on her shoulders. “She loves you, and you love her. Of that, I am sure. So go after her, no matter what.”

“But what about you? What about you, aunt Olga?” Anastasia asked, and her aunt smiled.

“I receive people all the time, Nastya, be them a common man or another noble. You can visit me, and I can tell Xenia to let you visit.” She kissed Anastasia’s forehead, and the girl sniffed. “Now go, darling. Don’t mind this old woman.”

Anastasia nodded, getting up, and getting out of there, the river by her back glinting under the risen sun as she went to find Yelena. She probably was with Dimitri, and as such, she went to the hotel they were supposed to stay in.

* * *

“She’s not here.” Said Dimitri, as Anastasia stared at the empty room. Her bags were there, sure (because she had had no time to grab them, but now it would be useful), but Yelena’s weren’t. She stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do, and Dimitri’s voice echoed around her. Anastasia did not turn to face him. “I recommended her she made her own life, and who’d think she’d listen to me?”

“Yelena left?” Anastasia asked, eyes still on where her bags should be. Yelena should be here, and she should…

“Yes, she was quite broken-hearted. So a nice girl from the bar and I suggested she enjoyed life, and she will. I think she was going to the train station. Something something… Paris?” Dimitri was having fun, she knew this; it was in his inflection, in his every word and syllable. She hated him.

But it was fair for Yelena to run away. After all, she hadn’t expected that Anastasia would come back. Not even Anastasia herself had expected it. In her situation, she would have done the same.

“Thanks.” She said, picking up her bags, and turning back to face Dimitri, who seemed… Melancholic. She stared at him, and he stared right back. “What?”

“Theoretically, this is the part where I shoot you for running off, asset.” Dimitri produced a small pistol from somewhere in his person, pointing at her, and Anastasia tensed, memories -

_wherearewegoing/it’sforyourownsecuritythewhiteshavefoundyouandnowwemustmoveyou/thecellarhasnoescapethough/shutthefuckupprisioner/nowwaithere/pleasebringachairformeandalexei/sure/dontyouthinkit’sabitweirdpapa/thishashappenedbeforeanya/butit’sthemiddleofthenight/hereisyourchair/thankyou/attentionprisionersthisisnowacommunicate of yo ur d e a t h_

“No!” Anastasia fell, and Dimitri’s gun kept pointing at her, even if he raised an eyebrow at her. She was at his mercy, wasn’t she? Just like she had been, back then. Different men, same tactic. “Don’t shoot me, I have done nothing wrong!”

He gave a step inside, closing the door behind him, gun still trained on her. She stared at him, grey-blue against forest green.

“Your only crime, Anastasia, was being born in the imperial family.” He smiled, giving one step closer. She kept her eyes on him, as he approached, each step an infinity.

“Then shoot me. Shoot me, Dimitri, and end this.” She hissed, rising up - her legs felt like they would give up any minute, now, but she had her dignity to keep. She had her family name to uphold, and by God, she would not die crying, begging for her captor not to kill her. She had already done that, once, and she refused to bow down once more.

He put the muzzle of his pistol against her forehead, and she kept her eyes on him. He smirked at her, finger on the trigger.

“Poor Yelena will cry so much, when she finds out. Or perhaps she won’t, since you’ve broken her heart.” He said, and Anastasia kept her eyes steady, even though her mind imagined hearing about it, Dimitri telling her that he had gotten rid of Anastasia, hands still bloodstained, smelling like gunpowder. Would she cry, or would she just close the door and pretend he hadn’t done that, pretend she never knew Anastasia?

Would she leave Anastasia behind - no, she was already leaving. If she thought Anastasia was alive and well, then she would be satisfied.

No. Anastasia couldn’t let her find out Dimitri had been killed.

“Don’t. Don’t let her find me, please, Dimitri. If you hold any love for her, then please…” Anastasia hated begging like this, but the idea of Yelena discovering all she had done to keep her alive had been futile hurt her deeply.

Dimitri smiled, a wry devil in a suit. He cocked his gun.

“There is no use begging now, prisoner. You’re at my mercy.” Anastasia closed her eyes when she saw Dimitri’s finger move, and fell when the gunshot.

* * *

 

When Anastasia realized she hadn’t been murdered (again), she opened her eyes, Dimitri offering a hand at her. There had been no shot; it only had been her memories.

“You didn’t kill me,” She said, more baffled than she had any right to be. Still, she accepted Dimitri’s silent offer, straightening her dress. “Why?”

“I said you’re at my mercy, didn’t I?” He replied, and messed up her hair with his free hand, putting the empty pistol back in his pocket. She stared at him, and his eyes seemed full of emotions she could barely get. “My mercy says you live, comrade. Now go. Yelena will pick up the train that leaves at noon, and perhaps you’ll get a ticket, if you arrive soon.”

“Won’t you get killed for this? It is treason.” Anastasia moved to pick up her bags, however - she wasn’t dumb enough to stick around, but curiosity got the best of her -, an eye on Dimitri, who seemed content on standing around, hands in her field of vision.

“You will, perhaps, just need to answer a letter every once in a while, or host someone for a day or two, depending on where you decide to move. I will bear the burden of whatever may fall upon me.” He shrugged, and Anastasia put her bag in her shoulder, staring at him. He laughed. “Don’t worry, Anastasia, they won’t kill me. After all, I am the only one who knows where you are going.”

“I can disappear.” She pointed out, adjusting the bag, and Dimitri kept the wry smile on his devilish face.

“And let dearest aunts Olga and Xenia all alone?” He replied, and she cursed under her breath. “You’ve wasted enough time with me, Anya dear. Go, before is too late.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. With a firm nod, Anastasia left the room, leaving behind Dimitri, who simply watched.

* * *

The train station wasn’t crowded, which was rather nice, because she zeroed in Yelena very quickly. Not that it’d be hard, since she knew Yelena well, but still. Easier. She stopped for a moment, trying to catch her breath, and watched Yelena.

She looked beautiful - not that she wasn’t normally, but something about the light that fell over her head, the way her braid was tied, the clothes that seemed cleaner than usual -, fidgeting with the strap of her bag, eating something that she couldn’t exactly identify. Anastasia had no right to go there and bother her, but it wasn’t like she was ever told “no” as a child.

Well, her parents and sisters had tried, but the lesson hadn’t exactly stuck. With a deep breath, Anastasia approached, slowly but surely. She would make it a surprise.

Yelena looked so pretty.

“Yelena!” She called, unable to stop herself, and Yelena blinked quickly, twice, before looking up in her directions, shoulders falling as she rose. When she arrived, she was once more breathless, hands on her knees as she tried her very best to look regal, looking up to the girl in front of her, dark eyes staring at her. “Yelena.”

“Anastasia. May I ask that, if I find your card in another chocolate box, I can keep it?” She asked, softly, putting a hand under Anastasia’s cheek, pulling her up slightly. Anastasia obeyed the quiet order, and huffed. “Please. Let me have this one thing of you, I beg.”

“No. You can’t have a picture of me.” Yelena gave a step back, and Anastasia stepped forward. “I’m coming with you. Don’t think you’re getting rid of me so easily, Yelena.”

Yelena blinked once more, hands joining with Anastasia, fingers interlacing.

“But I thought…” She started, and shook her head. “Don’t you hate me, now? What I did...”

“Was for my protection.” She interrupted, and Yelena looked at her, bewildered. “Listen, Yelena, I realized, and honestly, being a Grand Duchess isn’t all that it’s made to be, really. It’s very boring, in fact, and seeing the world seems way better.”

Yelena seemed to hesitate for a moment, eyes cast down.

“I’m not rich.”

“I know.”

“We will probably go hungry.”

“We’ve gone hungry more than once.”

“You deserve better.”

“I know exactly what I deserve, and right now, it’s taking a trip around the world the world with you.” She paused, and relaxed. “If you’ll have me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Yelena asked, hugging Anastasia, warm and soft, just as she remembered. She missed it, somehow, even if it hadn’t been a full day.

And she also sort of wanted to kiss her, but they were in public, and that probably wouldn’t be acceptable. What she wouldn’t give to be in their little room, right now…

“Wait, hold up a moment.” Yelena said, blinking quickly. Anastasia tore her eyes off Yelena’s lips, blushing. “If you’re going with me to Rome, then we need to get your tickets.”

Yelena pulled at her, grabbing her bag, and going for the ticket office, but Anastasia was sporting a frown on her face.

“Rome?” She asked, as Yelena dragged her down.

“Yes, I was planning to go to Paris, but I figured Dimitri would figure it out, so I changed my mind midway here. Faster, Anastasia, we got…”

“Anya.” She blurted out, making Yelena stop in her tracks. Anastasia put a strand of her hair behind her ear, feeling the blush spread. “Anastasia is dead, isn’t she?”

Yelena stopped, for a moment considering what Anastasia had just said, and nodded.

“Sure, Anya. But still, let’s go. The train is going out soon, and if I lose it, I’m going to actually have to go to Paris.” She replied, pulling her, and Anastasia - no, Anya - smiled, going with Yelena. She could feel the missing part of the puzzle coming back together, and God, she had never been happier. She just wished she could kiss Yelena, but that could be solved later.

* * *

“What will you tell them?” Asked Olga Alexandrovna, writing a letter, and Dimitri drank a sip of his tea - Earl Grey, a rarity in the Union. He would miss this. -, before answering, collecting his thoughts.

“That Anastasia has decided that she will not come back to the Union, but she also will not step up as the actual Anastasia.” He said, and Olga Alexandrovna rose her dark eyes. They were intelligent, and she reminded him of Yelena, if Yelena was a Grand Duchess. He drank another sip.

Olga didn’t seem to believe it and kept her eyes on him. He placidly ignored her, enjoying his tea.

“Shall I send money for your funeral, or are you going to get thrown down a shaft?” That was… Dangerously close to some truths Olga wouldn’t really like to hear. Dimitri smiled, putting down his teacup. “It’d be great, economy-wise.”

“I have an agreement with the girls and the police. They’ll be sleeper agents, and I am their contact point.” Dimitri replied, and Olga looked at him for a mere second, before going back to her letter. “I know it is not what you dreamed for Anastasia, but…”

“You’re right it is not what I dreamed for her. I wanted her married, with a palace and a title to her name.” She used her fountain pen to point at Dimitri, and he decided it was a bad moment to drink more tea. “I wanted my niece to be royalty, and you reds took it from her.”

Olga paused, and sighed, shoulders slumping, and she went back to writing. He guessed it was to Xenia, but there was no way of knowing.

“But, most of all, I wanted my niece to be alive, and… That she is. I wanted Anastasia to be happy, and that she is. I cannot ask for more.” She sighed once more, and Dimitri drank his tea. He probably could grab a biscuit, too. It seemed to have sugar, and it had been years since he had sugar. “Dimitri, tell me.”

“Whatever you wish, ma’am.” He replied, grabbing the biscuit. He could feel the sheer quantity of sugar on it. “Except a few things, but I assume your question is about Anastasia.”

“The girl I saw here… She is the real one, right? The girl at the hospital…?” The doubt in her voice was delicious, Dimitri had to say. He took his sweet time in eating the biscuit and drinking the tea, and Olga kept writing her letter.

“The girl at the hospital is a fake. The one with Yelena is real.” He replied and Olga’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m not sure who is behind the one at the hospital, but I think they might be after a certain Romanov fortune.”

That made Olga stop, spluttering in a manner that wasn’t very royal-like. Dimitri politely pretended not to see it, using the moment to have one biscuit or three more.

“Romanov fortune? _Really_?” Olga laughed, and Dimitri’s eyes rose, eyebrow raised. “Well, when they find it, let me know where it is. I’d love to get my hands on it, as well.”

Dimitri chuckled, and he kept sipping his tea, as the sound of the pen against paper resonated around the room. He looked out, the vision of a river that was foreign to him, and smiled a little.

It reminded him nothing of the rivers of the Soviet Union, but a river was a river, and rivers were all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and w this chapter, our ride is over!! feel free to have a go at me pls


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